The Valley of the Kings
by XFauxAfflictionX
Summary: After "The Great Accomplishment," Adrian Veidt begins to fall apart. He knows what he did was necessary, but he is constantly tortured by it. One woman tries to help him through his deteriorating life, but she may prove to be like the servants of pharoahs
1. Chapter 1

*The rating may eventually change to M*

**Valley of the Kings**

**Part 1**

It was November 4th 1985; three days after the world's major cities were brutally obliterated in an act of violence perpetrated by Dr. Manhattan, when Grace Turner noticed that her boss had not returned from hiatus.

The Veidt building was one of six buildings still standing in New York; the Chrysler Building being one of the others. It had been examined thoroughly on the 2nd, closed for minor maintenance on the 3rd, and opened to only employees on the 4th. But as Grace took calls at her desk just outside Adrian Veidt's office, she noticed the one crucial missing piece; Adrian himself, the multi-billionaire entrepreneur who had left on hiatus on October 31st. He hadn't shown sight nor sound for almost a week now, and everyone in the office was becoming frantic. So, Grace did what got her hired for Veidt Enterprises in the first place; she took some initiative.

At 1:16 on November 5th, she had a Veidt owned helicopter scheduled to fly out to his location. There had been notes and other memorabilia on his desk pointing to a Pyramid base in Antarctica. What on God's green earth would compel a multi-billionaire to fly to Antarctica; Grace had not the slightest clue. But Adrian Veidt was MIA, and had to be found immediately. The CEOs and share-holders of Veidt Enterprises were becoming anxious that the brilliant Mr. Veidt had perished in the explosion, but Grace knew differently. If anyone survived the blast, Adrian Veidt would be the one.

She hadn't spent much time around him; that position was held for his personal attendants and secretaries, but the time she had spent with him had proven to her exactly how intelligent the man was. He articulated every sentence to beyond perfection, he spoke as if he was educated in every art (which might be), and he held himself in the utmost regard. He _was_ the smartest man on earth, and he knew it. Knew it, but didn't dare flaunt it. He was incredibly down-to-earth, if not completely humble, which surprised Grace the first time she met him. Nobody is both intelligent and modest; it just doesn't happen. That was why Grace had become worried. Veidt always called if he was going to be even a minute late to a meeting (which hadn't yet happened, he just called for courtesy), or he always sent word if a meeting had to be postponed. He valued other peoples' time, and he made sure not to waste it.

So on November 5th, 1985, she met three other people on the roof of the Veidt building, where the helipad was already burdened with the aircraft that would bear them to Antarctica. One man was the pilot, Veidt's personal pilot, a Mr. Gerald Hargreeve. He was a silent man; only motioning them into the helicopter and grunting to tell them to strap in. But he was welcoming nonetheless, so Grace reserved judgment for a later time. The other two people, both men as well, one with spectacles and a potbelly, and the other with a receding hairline, were top executives for Veidt Ent. They bid her welcome, but didn't skip into pleasantries. Everyone was still reeling from the attack on New York, and just about everyone you talked to had lost a mother, father, brother, or sister to Dr. Manhattan's attack. No one felt like talking much; just helping those who survived in any way they could. So far the body count of Veidt employees was staggering; almost sixty percent of people hadn't shown up when doors opened on the 4th. Given that ten percent of that was probably people too emotionally scarred to come to work; that meant that fifty percent were dead.

Grace held her flowing brunette hair in place as Mr. Campbell and Mr. Luca, the executives, hopped into the helicopter and shut the door. She was surprised that of all of Veidt's secretaries, she was the only remaining one who had shown up. Otherwise, she was certain she wouldn't be in this situation. But, her family lived in New Jersey, and she happened to be visiting them for Halloween when the blast hit New York. So, since she and her family were virtually unharmed, she had come to work. Some of the other executives had found a single message playing across Veidt's computer when they arrived; fund rebuilding of New York in any way necessary. They had assumed it was sent by Veidt, but nothing was conclusive. So, the media wanted to talk to Adrian Veidt about such generosity, and get a statement about how he felt toward his former Watchmen partner, Dr. Manhattan. But Veidt Enterprises had to keep stalling the media, telling them that "Mr. Veidt cannot be reached for comment." But of course, the media cockroaches were nasty little leeches, and had already started spreading rumors about him. So he had to be found. Now.

A plane ride to Antarctica would probably have been faster, quieter, and wouldn't have had to stop once to refuel, but since the attacks on the 1st, airspace was strictly monitored; allowing only the highest qualified private aircraft to fly. Given the missing billionaire, they were highly qualified.

With the exception of the fuel stop in Salvador, Brazil, the nineteen-hour flight was relatively mind-numbing and nineteen hours too long. Especially when both the Veidt executives had lost someone in the blast and weren't up for conversation. So Grace resorted to filling out some paperwork she had brought with her on a clipboard, and when she finished that, she just doodled on her spare paper. She found it slightly ironic that she worked for the smartest man in the world, and here she was doodling little drawings of puppies and rain clouds.

She could tell when they were getting close. The pressure in the aircraft changed so often that she stopped trying to pop her ears and just ignored it. The temperature also dropped so severely that she shivered, even after putting on the parka she had brought. She stared out the window, where there was an endless map of ocean, icebergs, and more ocean. On the distant horizon, she could see ice cliffs, where she could make out a building, hardly even recognizable as pyramid-shaped at such a far distance. But nonetheless, she knew that within twenty minutes, they would be there. Relief washed over her as she basked in the thought that she would soon be able to get off of her numb butt and stretch her legs.

But the relief was short-lived. As they approached, she could immediately tell that something was wrong. Matching gasps filled the helicopter as they all got a look at the building. It was mostly stone, but there were two glass pyramids protruding from that stone, and one of them was completely collapsed from about halfway up. Grace's heart leapt into her throat, not just out of anxiety, but because the pilot was rapidly descending toward a helipad just to the left of the stone pyramid.

She gathered her wits as Mr. Luca threw open the door barely after the chopper had set down, and the three of them bounded out and onto the windblown pad. The three of them raced to a titanium door set in the stone wall, and scurried inside. Grace hurried to fix her hair, knowing full well that even 5 mph winds turned her into Cousin It.

Both men turned to go in different directions, apparently looking for their boss, without so much as a grunt. She huffed a sigh and went looking for Veidt as well. Both Campbell and Luca had descended stairs into the stone pyramid, so she decided to steer into the glass one. She almost got lost several times, having turned into dead-end hallways and offices. But she eventually found herself walking down a long, cold hallway; at the end of which she could see snow on the floor. It had to be the glass pyramid.

She sped up her walk, until she was at a brisk run, the footfalls of her knee high (but somehow still fashionable) snow boots echoing off the walls around her. When she emerged into the glass pyramid, she found herself in a much larger room than expected. All around her were statues of Ramesses II, arms crossed over his chest and a scepter in hand. To her immediate right was a giant wall of television screens, all turned off, and many of which were bashed in or broken. There was at least a foot of snow on the ground, mixed with shards of glass, and snow was still slowly gathering. Directly in front of her and to the right was a staircase, and at the top was a shoulder-up likeness of Ramesses, along with the old Shelley poem from which Veidt had pulled his pseudonym. And at the base of that statue, sitting on the top step of the staircase, bent over his knees with his head in his palms, sat Adrian Veidt.


	2. Chapter 2

****

Part 2

He was dressed in his old suit; the knee high boots, the form fitting pants and top, and the cape. She couldn't tell if he was wearing the purple mask because his head was bowed, but something definitely looked off about this picture. Veidt always carried himself well; shoulders back, chin high, straight back. He was always the poster child of perfection and elegance. Now, head in his palms, shoulders hunched, and head bowed in his hands, he was hardly recognizable as the proud figure he always was. But nonetheless, it was him.

"Mr Veidt!" she cried in relief, and began hurriedly walking toward him. "What happened here? We've called and sent messages. The media…"

She was cut short mid-sentence. The second she had started speaking, he slowly looked up, like one of those slow-motion shots in movies. As his hands slowly slid to reveal his face, Grace gasped; there was blood smeared on his forehead where his right hand had been, his lower lip was split on the right, and his left cheek bore a small cut. His skin was a sallow, sickly color, and his usually perfect hair was unkempt and falling over his headpiece into his eyes. His nose was bleeding and the look he gave her was that of a wounded dog, backed into a corner by the dogcatcher.

"My God!" she gasped. "Mr. Veidt! What happened to you!" she dropped her clipboard where she stood and rushed across the snow-covered room and up the stairs to crouch next to him. He hardly acknowledged that she had done so. He just stared straight ahead, his eyebrows angled in some form of grief.

Without waiting for him to explain, since it appeared that he wasn't going to, she reached up and felt of the blood smear on his forehead. It was dried, and there didn't appear to be any wound there. She let her eyes trail down to his right hand, and found the source.

There was a hole in the palm of the glove, and it looked like someone had taken a power drill to his palm. She gasped again, and reached for his wrist, pulling it up. He appeared to barely notice; still staring straight ahead, not doing anything but breathing… and hardly doing that either.

She grabbed the glove by the tip of the middle finger, gently pulling it off to reveal the wound. Indeed it appeared like someone had tried to drill through his hand. In the midst of wondering who the hell could have done this to Adrian Veidt, she pulled a handkerchief from her parka, licked the tip, and began wiping off some of the blood on his forehead. Again, he didn't acknowledge her; just let her do it.

"Mr. Veidt, who did this to you?" she asked, quieter now.

That seemed to wake him up. He leaned upright, away from her, and looked her in the eyes.

"Turner, isn't it?" he said, and his voice was hoarse, like it hadn't been used in days.

"Y…Yes. Grace Turner," she said, lowering her handkerchief and staring back at him.

"How much do I pay you?" he asked.

"S… six figures, sir," she said, crossing her hands in her lap.

"Enough to avoid the questions?" he said, his face still set into a stone grimace that was slightly reminiscent of the Ramesses statue behind him.

She was shocked that he would say such a thing, so she resulted to nodding "yes." He nodded in return, and leaned forward again, his elbows supported by his knees as he stared straight ahead at his wall of destroyed televisions.

"Um, sir. Two of…" she began but was interrupted.

"Adrian. Please," he said, still not looking at her.

"Adrian," she said, feeling awkward to be calling someone of such high authority by their first name. "Two of your executives are here. They were worried you had perished in the attacks. You know about them right?"

He scoffed, his face setting into a pained scowl as he turned his head to her. "Of course."

She sighed, her eyes wandering to his many cuts and forming bruises, and brought the handkerchief back to his face to brush off more dried blood. He didn't even flinch.

Grace heard footsteps coming from the hall she'd come in through. Adrian looked up at the hall and straightened as he listened. It was clear that the two executives were returning to continue their search.

Grace almost jumped as Adrian rocketed to his feet, snatching his glove from her other hand. He secured it back onto his hand, and set his face in that ever-familiar businessman glare. He pulled his shoulders back, and lifted his chin just in time to see both Mr. Campbell and Mr. Luca come tromping into the snow-covered room. Grace watched as she sat cross-legged on the stairs.

Both men stopped when they reached the edge of the snow and looked at Adrian, complete confusion playing across their faces.

"Gentleman," Adrian said, all traces of hoarseness gone and replaced with his usual smooth-talking business tone. "I welcome you to Antarctica's Pyramid headquarters. I apologize for the disorder, but it seems the foundation was not strong enough to withstand tremors from Dr. Manhattan's attacks. I shall have it repaired immediately. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must gather some things before we depart. I will meet you on the helipad in a few moments."

Both men stared, bewildered. "We sent word. Why didn't you reply?" Mr. Luca said, raising his chin in suspicion.

"Ah," Adrian said, grinning that guaranteed-to-make-the-reporter-write-something-nice smile. "It seems the phone lines and computer connections are faulty as well. I assure you, that will be mended quickly. Excuse me."

He finished by turning his back to them with a swish of his violet cape, and walking past Grace into a private hall to the left of the Ramesses statue. Grace gathered her handkerchief and held out her parka as she stood, tossing a confused look at both executives. They merely shrugged, and turned to return to the helipad. Grace decided to follow Adrian. After all, only a moment ago, he'd been the portrait of a broken man. She was sure he was a master of façade, so all this was probably a show to restore confidence into his executives.

She followed him down the hall, only to realize that he wasn't gathering anything at all. As soon as he was out of sight, he collapsed against a stone wall, panting and clutching at his temples. It seemed his wits were all he needed to gather. And Grace noticed something else as well; there were computers all around her, and all of them were in perfect working order, one with the many messages Mr. Campbell and Luca had sent. So he had received them. Received them, and ignored them. Something was terribly wrong here. There was something Veidt wasn't sharing.

"Mr. Veidt?" she asked meekly, and he jumped, not having heard her follow. He stared for a moment, then collapsed against the wall again. "Are you alright?" she continued, taking another step toward him.

He rubbed his eyes, looking at the wound on his palm when he did so. He didn't look at her, but held his hand out toward her.

"What?" she asked, confused.

He didn't answer, but instead pointed to the handkerchief in her hand. She handed it over, and he went to work brushing the dried blood from his face. He also removed his headpiece and ran a hand through his blonde hair, making sure it stayed back and presentable. That's when he turned to her, straightened, handed her handkerchief back, and sighed.

"Presentable?" he asked, and she furrowed her brows. She could see right through this. There was something terribly wrong, but he was covering it up for the sake of his executives.

"I suppose," she said, still confused, and nodded in approval. He then walked forward with all the confidence of the proud entrepreneur he once was. As he passed her, he stared a look right into her eyes that clearly said, "You will not speak a word of what you saw of me a moment ago."

It was like looking death in the face, and she couldn't help but step back, as if his eyes alone could incinerate her on the spot. She followed obediently as he walked out to the helipad, and pondered the many questions wracking her brain. Who or what could have beaten Adrian to the bloody pulp he was? Why would he refuse to tell her? And why would he have not answered their messages? Why on earth would Adrian Veidt seclude himself in a deteriorating glass building, shattered and broken?


	3. Chapter 3

My returning readers already know that I update _very _quickly. Sorry if that bothers anyone, it's just that I write very fast. So check back often. Chances are, I posted some more.

* * *

**Part 3**

The flight back was much like the flight to Antarctica. But this time, she had something much more interesting to do. The executives asked more questions, all of which Adrian expertly managed to answer while not actually answering. She could see it. And she knew they could too, but had decided not to pry.

So while they flew in silence, she tried to discreetly watch him. He hardly moved the entire flight. He stared out the window, keeping his right hand clenched so Luca and Campbell wouldn't see the injury. She could see the conflict… the utter chaos raging behind those sapphire eyes. The wheels were turning at light speed in his head, and she died to know what was doing this to him. He always made conversation with the people around him. He loved to be engaged in thought. Not many people actually made him think, but he liked a challenge. It was possible he was just reeling from Dr. Manhattan's attacks like everyone else, but she highly doubted that. No, this was something far worse. He was mastering this charade fairly well, but behind it, she could see the man she'd seen hunched on the stairs on the pyramid. His skin was recognizably pale, and his face was worn with something she couldn't quite place.

When they came in viewing range of New York, his face flushed even more, if possible. He looked like he was about to be sick, staring at the destruction. She could understand that, but there was something… personal about the way he reacted to the sight. She logged it into a mental notebook for later data. Of course, Mr. Campbell and Mr. Luca didn't even notice anything different about their boss. They were lost in their own worlds of anger and depression.

When they reached the building, Adrian graciously thanked Pilot Hargreeve, and led the other two men to the elevator, where he pressed the number 12; the offices. The offices were scarcely deserted, and Grace noticed Veidt's tiny reaction to that as well.

He led the men to an office, where he gave them several instructions, and bid them farewell. Glad to finally have something to distract them, the two men happily waved him off. He informed them that he was going to his penthouse to change, and that they could reach him on extension 1 if they needed him. He then graciously told them that if they needed to take the rest of the day for personal reasons, they were welcome. Grace noticed Mr. Luca, behind his spectacles, tearing up as he thought of whomever it was he'd lost. Her heart went out to him as Grace and Veidt walked away from the offices. He looked slightly perturbed that she was still following him, but he obviously resolved himself to the fact that she was going to continue questioning him in private. Which she planned to do.

He walked back to the elevator, and she followed lithely, knowing he would probably try to lose her any way he could. He inserted a key into a keyhole above the numbers, turned it, and pressed twenty. It was slightly awkward, the silence of the elevator. She had so many questions just bursting to be asked, but was determined to wait until they were alone in his penthouse.

She hardly even noticed the fact that she was going to be the first person to _see_ his apartment on the twentieth floor of the Veidt building. As the elevator opened to reveal his penthouse, she remembered. Nobody had ever explained how it looked.

It was very modern looking; titanium counters and furnishings in all shades of purple, black, and silver. There was very little personalized material, only some paintings, one of which she was pretty sure was an original Van Gogh. The elevator had opened into a nice foyer, above which hung a silver chandelier, simple and elegant. The floor was black granite, perfectly polished. Beyond that was a sitting area, strangely with no television; just bookshelf upon bookshelf, all stacked high and wonderfully organized. Straight ahead, past the sitting area, the entire wall was one giant glass window, which would usually show all the brilliant lights of New York City, but now only showed darkness and lit-up construction sites. The sun's last grasp of the horizon was quickly fading, giving the decimated city an eerie glow. To her right was an open entryway leading into a kitchen, where a half wall revealed a wine cabinet with many aged, probably expensive wines. Beyond those, to the left and right, were hallways, which she assumed led to his bedroom and various other rooms.

Adrian took three steps out of the elevator, and stopped. He didn't bother to turn on any lights; just stood, staring blankly ahead. Grace stepped out behind him, and stared at him.

"Mr. Veidt, I have questions. You probably figured that. And I want them answered," she said, proud that she had found the courage to speak that way to _Adrian Veidt._

Adrian took a deep breath, but didn't look back at her. "Please leave," he said, and that same broken, hoarse tone was back.

She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and said, "No."

He didn't react at all. So she continued. "I want to know what happened out there. There wasn't a blast anywhere near Antarctica, not one that could have caused that glass pyramid to collapse. And who on earth could even lay a finger on you? I've seen the ads, read the articles. Nobody can best you in a fight. Unless you let them."

That got him. He spun around to face her, his fists clenched tightly (which reminded her that there was a slice the size of a penny in his right one.) But he didn't look angry. He looked terrified. And now that she concentrated more, she noticed his entire body was shaking. He was also panting as if he'd just run a marathon.

"I said, please leave," he said through clenched teeth, and she noticed him become even more unbalanced.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice sounding frantic.

He broke eye contact with her, staring blankly at the floor, and barely reached out in time. His legs collapsed and he tried to catch himself on the half wall, but failed. He knocked a vase of flowers from the counter as he fell, and it shattered on the tile, spraying water, glass, and lilacs everywhere. Grace rushed forward, all determination for answers replaced with worry. She dropped to her knees next to him, laying a hand gently on his shoulder. He was clutching at his chest, gasping for air, his eyes wide in fear. She pressed onto his neck with her pointer and middle fingers and noticed that his pulse was racing. Classic symptoms of a panic attack.

"Adrian, what is it? What's wrong?" she said, using his first name again, hoping it would help.

He merely nodded "no," still panting and gasping, and muttered, "Allein. Alle allein."

At first she thought he'd misspoken, but soon remembered his German heritage, and made a mental note to look up what he'd said later.

She couldn't think of any way to help him. She'd never known anyone with panic attacks, and even if she had, was there even a way to stop them? She just tried rubbing his shoulder, and asking, "how can I help you?"

He lifted a violently trembling hand and pointed to the window. She was about to inquire as to what he wanted, but he elaborated.

"Close the curtains. Please, _please_, close them," he begged, his voice shaking so badly she hardly understood him.

She jumped to her feet and wrenched the black and purple curtains closed, making the apartment almost pitch black. She navigated her way back to him, and felt the nearby wall for a light switch. Thankfully, the building's electricity was still working; it had been on and off on the 4th. She returned to Adrian, kneeling next to him as he continued to panic. She only hoped she could help in some small way.

Slowly, his breathing returned to a somewhat regular rhythm and his shaking eased, but didn't dissipate. He relaxed only slightly, and collapsed backward to lean against the half wall. He looked at her, and she couldn't read what he was thinking. Then again, no one really could.

He waited for a moment, then took a shaky breath; slightly reminiscent of a child trying to stop crying. He held out a hand to her, which was still trembling, and whispered, "help me up, please."

She stood, shrugged off her parka and tossed it over the black leather couch, and took his hand. Halfway through pulling him to his feet, she realized he'd held out his right hand, because he gasped and staggered. She let go quickly so as not to hurt him any more, and steadied him with both hands on his upper arms.

"Easy. You okay?" she asked, her voice much more sympathetic now.

He meekly nodded and swallowed, as if trying to push back his dread.

He motioned to the hall to the right of the large window, and staggered as he attempted to walk. She held him under one arm as she led him, still shaking, down that hall and into what was apparently his bedroom. On any other day, she would have blushed at the fact that she was in Adrian Veidt's bedroom, but there were more pressing matters to attend to. He managed to stumble forward to his bed, where he solemnly sat on the edge, his eyes half-lidded and staring straight ahead.

"I must shower and change," he said weakly, his upper torso tottering dangerously forward. She jumped forward to make sure he wouldn't fall again, and put a hand under his chin, forcing him to look up at her.

"No, _you_ need to sleep before you go into a coma. How long has it been since you slept last?" she said, examining his red and tired eyes.

"Not sure," he said, and stripped his gloves off and threw them to the ground. That's when she noticed that the wound on his hand was bleeding pretty badly. She must have broken what had formed of the scab when she helped him up.

"Wait here," she said, making sure he was stable before walking into the adjoining bathroom. In a mirrored medicine cabinet, she found a bottle of rubbing alcohol, gauze, and some bandages, and scurried back into the bedroom. Luckily, Adrian was still upright, and rubbing his temples with his good hand.

She knelt in front of him, and turned his right hand palm-up. He simply watched as she poured alcohol on the gauze and laid them on his palm. He didn't even wince, though she was sure it hurt like hell. After she was sure she had cleaned it thoroughly, she wrapped the bandage around his hand several times, and secured it with a metal clasp.

"Will you need help changing?" she asked.

"No," he murmured, and stood on shaky legs.

His breath hitched in his throat, and he began to collapse again. She jumped forward, catching him by his arms to steady him as he slowly sank back to sit on the bed.

"Yes," he amended, his voice starting to shake again.

Again, she usually would have turned a lovely shade of scarlet in this situation, but he needed her help, and that was all that mattered.

It was pathetic, really. He had trouble even holding his arms up so she could pull off the shoulder guards and breastplate. She couldn't help herself; she admired. Plus, he was so weak that he didn't notice the second of hesitation as she ogled.

She paused when he was bare from the waist up. The last time she'd taken a guy's pants off, she'd been in college and…. not going there.

He actually managed a small grin. "I think I can handle it from here," he said, a tiny bit more conviction in his voice. "Just hand me those clothes, there," he pointed to where a shirt and pants were neatly folded on a black lacquered dresser. She handed them to him, and he managed another small smile.

"Anything else?" she asked, not meaning to get back into her secretary voice, but managing nonetheless.

"Didn't you have some questions you wanted answered?" he asked, pulling his shirt on with some degree of difficulty.

"Oh," she stammered, looking away and brushing her hair behind her ear. "I'm sure we can talk some other time."

This time, he truly smiled, and said, "Yes. Some other time," he paused, turning his hand over and examining the bandage. "Thank you, Ms. Turner."

"My pleasure," she said, and left his bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

So, the things she knew or had already figured out: he wouldn't look at the decimated New York, he wouldn't tell her how he came by his injuries or how the glass pyramid became half destroyed, and there was something desperately, painfully wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

As she walked away from Adrian's bedroom and toward the elevator, she stopped. She thought about exactly how bad of shape he'd been in just a few moments ago, and how he'd needed help to even walk to his own bedroom. She sighed, and turned back around. She decided she would stay, just overnight to make sure he was okay. She had no idea what was doing this to him, and was sure he wouldn't tell her, but that didn't mean she had to deny her sensibilities. She would stick around and make sure he'd be okay, then get back to work. What else would she do? The building her apartment had been in was gone, and for the few days after the attack, she'd been staying in a hotel on Roosevelt Island, just a bridge away from Manhattan. However, it was a good few hours drive back there, and she figured it was full by now, with all the homeless refugees that survived.

So she flipped on a few lights and sat down at a desk that was situated against the glass wall overlooking New York. She turned the computer on, and went immediately to an online translator. Hey, just because she was working for the smartest man on earth didn't mean she had to be the smartest woman. She chose English to German, and found, with some sorrow, that Adrian had said "Alone. All alone."

Alone? Did that mean he'd lost many people in the blasts? Everyone he felt close to? She didn't know. After a moment of snooping through his computer and finding that all folders with any kind of interesting title were password protected, she decided to look around his apartment.

Usually with people as widely well-known as Adrian Veidt, there was always some old ex that spread what a slob their hubby had been, or how indecent a lifestyle he'd lived. But the only articles on Adrian Veidt were in respectable magazines, talking about how he'd used his Watchmen fame to build an empire. There were plenty of paparazzi pictures of him, but he was never with anyone that would count as a significant other. To say he'd avoided being cavalier in his personal life was a massive understatement. She'd never even heard rumors of a girlfriend… boyfriend… whatever. Nothing, nada, zip, zilch.

And his lifestyle didn't prove much. He lived clean, that was for sure. Every surface was dust-free, and nothing was out of place. And not only were all the books on the shelf, they were neatly alphabetized. She examined his book collection, and quickly decided that very few of them held any interest to her. She preferred mystery novels and things of that nature. These were all philosophical, psychological; books that pondered the meaning of life and the purpose of the human being. Stuff way too deep to be considered at nearing 9pm.

She followed the other hallway; the one leading off to the left of the sitting room, and found a workout room with pretty much every piece of equipment of a professional gym and then some. She smiled to herself at the image she got of him working out, and quickly torched it. She couldn't be fantasizing about this guy when his life was clearly spiraling downward.

She finally wandered back into the sitting room, and decided to curl up on the couch under her parka and try to get some sleep. She kicked off her boots and set them on the rug by the elevator, to avoid spreading any mud or anything that might have clung to them. She turned off all the lights except one; a little lamp on the table behind the couch, just in case she had to get up for any reason. She was reminded of her high-school babysitting days, and almost smiled.

She tossed and turned for hours, and had just lolled into that slightly awake but almost asleep stage when a commotion coming from Veidt's room stirred her. The glowing clock that was settled among the bookshelves read 2:00am. She sat up immediately, and listened, and when she heard more movement, she realized that it sounded like he was getting sick.

She rushed around the couch, into his room, and around the corner to the bathroom, where sure enough, Adrian was leaning over the toilet, forehead in his good palm, choking slightly. He was clad in only a pair of black slacks, and she could see his stomach muscles working as he gagged. Pity shot straight through her.

"You alright?" she asked, and he jumped, looking up at her and squinting against the lights.

"Ms. Turner. You're still here," he said, his voice sounding even more hoarse than originally.

"Oh, yeah. Well… I just figured…" she paused, looking for correct words. "You know, you were… maybe I should… oh hell. I wanted to stay and make sure you'd be okay."

He grinned despite his obvious pain. "Thank you. That's very kind."

She half-smiled back, then repeated, "You okay?"

"Oh, it's just a migraine. I'll live," he said, rubbing his forehead and grimacing.

"Anything you can take for it?" she asked, reaching for the medicine cabinet.

"Not really," he said, shielding his eyes from the light of the bathroom. "I have some anti-nausea medications, but I usually ironically loose them before they can work."

"Better than nothing," she said, pulling a bottle of Phenergan from the cabinet and spilling one of the pills into her palm and handing it to him. When he held out his hand, she noticed that he was trembling again, and that pity welled up again.

"Let me get you a glass," she said, and dashed out into the kitchen, where after some turmoil, she found the glasses in a cupboard above a huge stove. She sub-consciously wondered if he actually used that stove, or if it was just there to look pretty.

She scurried back into his bathroom, just in time to catch the tail end of yesterday's meals. If he'd eaten at all, which seemed unlikely to her, with how weak and pale he'd been. She filled the glass with water from the sink, and handed it to him. He took it with his bandaged hand, with some difficulty, and downed the pill in one gulp.

He sighed, and went to get up. He made it halfway before she noticed his eyes getting a little unfocused, and she rushed forward to support him. He staggered, and held on to her as she helped lead him back to his purple and black king-sized bed. Before she knew that purple was a color of royalty, she would have thought all the purple was a little much. But with the way he idolized Ramesses and Alexander the Great, it wasn't that big of a deal.

He collapsed against it, still shivering, and pulled his covers up. "Have I thanked you yet, Ms. Turner?" he asked, looking up at her.

"It's Grace. And yes, you have. Many times," she said, walking over to his bathroom and shutting off the light.

"Well, thank you," he sighed, and the pain in his voice was still evident.

"Not a problem… Adrian," she said, his name finally sounding correct coming from her lips.

She walked to the door, and as she slipped out, she whispered, "You're not alone, Mr. Veidt."

After crumpling on the couch under her parka again, Grace hardly remembered falling asleep. It wasn't difficult, after two nineteen-hour helicopter flights, and caring for Adrian, she had been running on empty for far too long. She knew she should have eaten something, and forced Adrian to eat something as well, but really the only thing both of them needed was sleep. So sleep she did, dreaming uneasy visions of explosions, collapsing buildings, screaming people, and razed cities.

So she nearly screamed when she was woken by another sound coming from Adrian's room. She shot upright, her hair flailing madly and getting stuck to her lips. The curtains were still drawn, but the sun was creating little light-snakes in the tile floor at their base. She listened for a moment, only to figure out that the shower was running. Well, that was good sign, as long as he didn't fall down in there.

She yawned, stretched, flipped on a few lights, and trudged to the other bathroom, just outside the workout room, where the Monster from the Blue Lagoon stared tiredly at her from the mirror. She grunted, attempted to tame her mane, and after failing miserably, decided to raid Adrian's refrigerator.

It was incredibly organized, and there was not a shred of eggs, milk, or lunchmeats of any kind. Of course, she'd forgotten; he was a strict vegetarian. Among other health foods, there were a few bottles of name-brand water. She'd always found that water was water, but apparently it wasn't to Adrian Veidt. He'd probably lecture her on the amount of pho-somethings in the water and its effects the body's something-system. A huge sentence that she probably wouldn't understand. She huffed a sigh, shut the fridge, and explored the cabinets. She finally came across a pantry, where she thankfully found a few boxes of cereal. It was strange, considering that Adrian Veidt ate cereal. He struck her as the kind of guy who could survive, and thrive, on dust particles. But of course, in the last twenty-four hours, he had proven her completely wrong.

She went back to the fridge and found a carton of rice milk, which she grimaced at, and rummaged around until she found some bowls. She sat at a small silver table hovering in a corner of the large kitchen, and poured herself a bowl of California Raisins cereal. The rice milk wasn't actually that bad; she hardly noticed a difference between that and regular milk.

Halfway through the bowl, she heard the water shut off in Adrian's room, and a few minutes after that, she heard his bedroom door open and footsteps coming down the hall.

She stood, walked around the half wall and turned to round the corner.

"Morning," she called before rounding the corner. "I was going to make some breakfast, but I remembered you're a veg…"

Her sentence was stalled when she rounded the corner, where Adrian stood, his skin covered in water droplets, his hair wet but neatly combed, and a black towel hanging dangerously low around his waist. She'd seen him shirtless last night, but not like this. This was… impressive.

Grace wasn't good with computers. So naturally, she'd spilled numerous liquids on them and seen them short circuit. She had no idea brains could do the same thing.

Adrian smiled, but it was different. This wasn't the smile he gave to reporters and businessmen to charm them into liking him, this was something else. Something more like… guaranteed-to-melt-your-clothes-off.

She gathered what was left of rational thought, and tried again. "I remembered you're a vegetarian, so is there something else you make in the morning… besides cereal that is?"

He was brushing over his wet hair with a smaller, purple towel as he said, "Not really hungry."

"Uh huh. Yeah. So, does lying through your teeth come with the whole genius thing, or do I have to pay extra for that?" she said, leaning her weight on one leg.

He stopped brushing through his hair, and stared right through her, as if considering her for the first time, then he actually laughed. Come to think of it, she'd never heard him do that before… ever. It was… strange; sort of unnatural.

"Cereal is fine," he said, and turned to return to his bedroom.

In the midst of admiring his statue-worthy sculpted back, she called, "you feeling better today?"

He didn't stop walking away from her, just said, "Well, I'm not dead. That's progress."

She grinned, and on her way back to the kitchen, stopped and peeked through the curtains. Bad idea. She'd been on the twelfth story all of the other days after the attack, and from there, you couldn't quite see how bad it was. From the twentieth, every collapsed building was viewable, every construction site that had only just begun to work. There were no streets, just debris piled on more debris. She gasped as she looked, and shut the drapes again to avoid bursting into tears. True, she hadn't lost anyone too close to her, but that didn't mean she wasn't distraught over having her city, her country, the entire world attacked unexpectedly.

She shuddered, and was almost back to her cereal when her cell phone rang from her coat on the couch. She scurried to the sitting area, and pulled her brick-sized phone from the large pocket of her parka. She had always wondered why phones had to be so damn… big, with all the technological advances they were making, but hey, she still needed a phone.

She answered and found that it was Mr. Campbell.

"The media contacted us again, they're really nagging us about getting a speech or statement of some kind from Mr. Veidt," he said, and it sounded like he hadn't slept in a week. Probably hadn't.

"Why are you telling me this? His personal secretaries take care of that business," she said.

"They're all gone. You _are _his personal secretary," he replied. She almost laughed at the fact that he had no idea _how_ personal. She figured watching someone have a panic attack and vomit up his stomach's contents classified her as more of a babysitter.

"Ohhhkay," she said, rethinking what she had planned for her day. "What do I need to do?"

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Uhhh," she figured 'in Mr. Veidt's apartment' might give the wrong impression, so she went with "I'm on my way there now."

"Go up to his penthouse, and tell him we have a press conference, which will be televised, at noon today at Ground Zero. Tell him to be prepared to give a speech. Make sure he's ready to answer in-depth questions about Dr. Manhattan. Think you can handle it?" he finished.

Just short of holding Adrian's hair back last night, she figured she'd handled worse. "Yes, I can do that."

"Good. See you at noon," Mr. Campbell said, and didn't wait to hear a goodbye before hanging up.

"_Bye, nice talkin' to you too,_" she mocked as she pressed the off button on her cell.

"Who was that?" Adrian's voice said from behind her, and she yelped and jumped so bad that she dropped her phone on the floor.

Adrian picked it up for her, setting it on the table behind the couch. "My apologies. Didn't mean to frighten you."

"You didn't… I just…" she said, pushing her hair behind her ears as she noticed that he was now clothed in his usual suit. Except this one wasn't purple, it was mostly black. He must have known he would be on television today, talking about the attacks. Purple doesn't really say "sorry for your loss, New York."

"You just felt like throwing your phone at me?" he said.

"Ah, is that sarcasm I detect?" she said, inching around him since his proximity was making her warm… in more ways than one. She made her way to the kitchen, where, with much disappointment, she found that her cereal was soggy. "That was Mr. Campbell. He says there's a press conference today at noon," she began as she poured the cereal down the sink and washed the bowl. "He says be prepared to give a speech and answer questions about Dr. Manhattan."

"I'm assuming you're in charge of all this because my personal secretaries are…" he paused, and when she turned to face him, it seemed that he had gone pale trying finish that sentence.

"Let's just go with 'unavailable'," she said, putting the bowl on a drying rack. "And yes, you would be correct."

"Well then," he said, walking into the kitchen and reluctantly pulling down a bowl for himself. He obviously figured she would force him to eat if he didn't do it willingly. "Congratulations. You've just been promoted."


	5. Chapter 5

I'm sorry some of them are so short, I just like to keep differing events in their own chapters. That's why I update a lot :-] Enjoy.

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Part 5

Grace had thought that Adrian was doing better; that all he needed was to get some decent sleep. But it turned out that he was still not the same man from before the attacks. He was better than he'd been upon returning from Antarctica, yes. But he wasn't the same Adrian Veidt the news reports always raved about. He was withdrawn, depressed, and most of all he was in pain. She could see it. It may not have been physical, but sometimes psychological pain is much more severe. Physical pain can be treated; whether it be with antibiotics, painkillers, or any other kind of medicine. But emotional pain… that was far more difficult to cope with.

After eating a small amount of cereal, which Grace deemed as hardly close to enough, Adrian sat down with a note card and began scratching out annotations for a speech. Grace didn't know when she was going to attempt to ask her questions again, but now didn't seem right. He had far too much on his plate already. So she sat on the leather couch, watching him as he wrote. He barely acknowledged her presence while he worked, but when she tried once to open the curtains and let some natural light in, he nearly had another panic attack.

Her questions were quickly piling up. Why in hell wouldn't he look at New York? Sure, it depressed her too, but this was something… personal.

When he was finished, he sighed and stood, looking at her as if surprised she was still around.

"Don't you have something… more pressing to attend to?" he asked as he wrapped a white tie around his neck, flipped the collar of his black shirt down, and began to knot it.

"Well, my apartment building is gone, and so is everything I own. What exactly would I have to attend to?" she said, trying to tame her mane of hair.

"Valid point," he remarked as they both made their way to the elevator. They were to meet Mr. Campbell on the helipad on the roof at 11:30, where they would be flown to Ground Zero for his speech. If she weren't as fine tuned to his little quirks, she would have missed his reaction to that statement. But she didn't; his fists clenched ever so slightly, and his jaw set in anxiety.

The whole flight, he was jittery. He refused to look out the window, and he rapped his fingers anxiously on his knees. The bandage had been removed, and he was doing his best to keep people from noticing the healing wound on his inner palm. Grace had never, not in the history of all his television interviews, seen him like this. He was the picture of perfection, and he usually had this way of sitting statue-still. Not now.

The helicopter descended onto a spot cleared of debris right at the heart of the destruction. A few feet from the helipad was a raised platform, which accommodated a few foldout chairs, and a microphoned podium with a purple drape that read Veidt Enterprises. Solemn men in black suits were lined up in the foldout chairs, and only a few managed to even greet them as they arrived. In front of the podium, resembling a crowd gathered to watch a concert, was a massive group of reporters, media cameras, and amongst them, a few regular civilians looking for some answers. Despite the utterly dismal appearance of the razed city, the day was perfect. The sun hung high in the sky, but the breeze made it a day that required a coat. The wind blew at the little group of people, and virtually no one spoke; they just waited.

The first to get out of the helicopter was Mr. Campbell, and he immediately pushed back the hoard of other reporters that had already started throwing questions at Veidt. Next was Adrian, and he made getting out of a helicopter with windblown hair seem totally natural… like everyone should be doing it.

Grace was next, and as she cradled her own replacement clipboard, she realized that Adrian had frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at the destruction behind his gathered crowd.

_Shit,_ Grace thought. He was really looking at it for the first time. He'd seen it a bit from the helicopter when they arrived from Antarctica, but not like this. Now he was standing in the middle of it, tasting the dust that still gathered in the air, looking at the people whose lives had been destroyed, staring right back at him.

Another executive, whose name Grace couldn't place, began rambling to Adrian, but it was obvious that it was going in one ear and out the other. As Grace watched, she noticed his hands slowly start to tremble, and his breathing getting increasingly quicker.

_Shit,_ she thought again. Those were signs of another panic attack. _Do something_, she told herself. She couldn't let him fall into that phase while in front of all these people. After all, that's what personal secretaries do, right?

She scurried forward, grabbing Adrian under the arm and peering pleasantly at the executive that was tediously going on about "tried to limit the amount of questions."

"Excuse us, would you?" she said, and pulled Adrian, still white-faced and staring straight ahead, back toward the helicopter, where their words would be muffled by its still-spinning blades.

"Easy, okay. Breathe," she said, shaking him slightly to get him to look away from the devastation. He blinked several times, as if just now noticing that he'd gotten out of the helicopter, and looked at her. It was obvious that he was still shaken. "What are you going to talk about in your speech?" she asked, trying anything to distract him.

"Um," he stammered, and his hand fumbled in a jacket pocket for his note card. Never in her four-year career at Veidt Enterprises had she ever once heard Adrian Veidt say "um." That worried her. "I… I was going to compare the cities to Rome. Rome, when it was sacked, and then rose again."

"Good," she said, noticing that his breathing was returning to normal. "What else?"

"The funding," Adrian said, looking down at the note card in his hand like it was a phantom limb. "I'll address the funding of reconstruction."

"Wonderful," she said, laying a reassuring hand on his arm. He took a deep breath, and his hands slowly steadied.

"And Adrian," she said, leaning close and lowering her voice as low as she could and still be heard above the slowing helicopter blades.

He looked into her eyes uneasily, obviously still a bit unstable.

"Don't look at it," she said. "Look at the reporters, the cameras, your note card, anything. Just _don't look at the city._ You'll be okay."

He looked a little taken aback, and then relief suddenly washed over him, and he visibly relaxed.

"Mr. Veidt!" Mr. Campbell called from over by the podium. "It's time."


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

Adrian steeled himself, and as he pulled his shoulders back and walked up the stairs to the podium, he was a shadow of his former self. Grace just hoped it was enough to fool the immediate public.

"Good afternoon, citizens of New York and people all over the globe watching today," Adrian said into the microphone, and his voice was that old rhythmic, smooth drawl that made women swoon. He straightened his note card on the podium, but didn't look down at it. "It is with deepest regret and sorrow that I address you under such circumstances," he continued, and Grace stepped closer, just behind the chairs where the Veidt executives sat in their tawny foldout chairs.

She noticed that he was doing exactly as she'd said; alternating between looking at a few reporters, a few cameras… never the wreckage behind them.

"On November 1st, the human race was devastated by an act of violence to the magnitude of which it has never experienced. Dr. Manhattan, my old colleague and friend, perpetrated a series of attacks on the world's major cities, killing millions. But it is through this chaos that we will, and must, rise," Adrian continued, his façade of confidence completely convincing to the crowd at hand.

"In 410 AD, the great city of Rome was sacked, quickly followed by the fall of the entire western Empire. Its population declined to a mere 20,000 during the Early Middle Ages, reducing the phenomenal city to groups of inhabited buildings interspersed among large areas of ruins; much like we are surviving and coping in today. But there is an underlying theme to such devastation and loss. It is a simple act which all human beings are capable of, and it spreads like wildfire; hope.

"It was through hope and determination that Rome rose again, under a man named Charlemagne. It soon became a city which put it's predecessor to shame, with responsible leadership and tried and true alliances.

"It is true, that we all mourn for our loss. The sheer number of lives lost that day is staggering, and shatters my soul more than you can possibly imagine. But we must weep for our dead, pray for them, and do as they would wish of us; rebuild. We cannot, and _will_ not let this act of violence tear us apart. Let us use the insuing peace to build new connections, strengthen old ones, and renew broken ones. For it is through the ashes of this horrendous disaster that a proverbial pheonix will rise.

"We, the survivors, have been given a great gift; the gift of a second chance. With our world at peace, we will rebuild, renew, and rise to the challenge. That is why, starting today, I am going to extend my funding of reconstruction from not just the city of New York, but to every city devastated by these attacks. From this point on, forty percent of the costs of rebuilding these great cities will be funded by Veidt Enterprises, no matter the cost."

Gasps spread through the crowd, as well as the Veidt executives, and the frantic scratching of reporters writing on their clipboards could be heard just under the gasps.

"That is my gift to you, my fellow survivors. The rest is up to you. Have hope, and never forget the bonds that this disaster has formed. Godspeed to those lost, and a heartfelt sorrow to their families. Thank you for your time," Adrian finished, and stepped back from the podium slightly, bowing his head as everyone applauded.

Mr. Campbell then stepped forward, raising his shorter head to the microphone, and said, "We will take questions now."

The reporters in the crowd immediately rushed forward, holding out their own microphones and firing off questions in a rumble of pure noise.

"One at a time, please," Mr. Campbell said, and stepped back again so that Adrian could address them.

Adrian simply picked someone by pointing at them, then gave the middle-aged man his full attention.

"How do you feel, knowing that Dr. Manhattan was previously a member of the Watchmen alongside yourself?" the man said loudly, holding up the mic so he could record Adrian's answer.

"It isn't a question of my feelings for the man himself, if a man is what I should label him. It is more a question of finding the reasoning in his actions. I cannot begin to comprehend the depths of ingenuity he possesses, but perhaps if we look deep enough, we can possibly rationalize. I know that right now, we see only his actions, and how they have impacted us. But let us look deeper. Is it impossible to consider that he was trying to _save_ us? Perhaps he understood our dire situation in terms of nuclear war. Is it unfathomable, then, that perhaps he did what he did for exactly the consequences that have occurred; peace between nations? If we may look beyond the situation at hand, we may see deeper motives than pure violence. Jon Osterman was a changed individual from before the accident that altered him, but for as long as I knew him, he was not a man who pursued violence, but rather, violence pursued him. So how do I feel about having worked alongside him for so long? I still value our time together, for he was truly the epitome of the evolved human being. If that makes me a monster, so be it. But I will always remember Dr. Manhattan," Adrian finished, staring daggers into the reporter, who furrowed his brows, and wrote something down on a clipboard.

"Mr. Veidt!" another reporter immediately called out, recognizing her chance to ask her question. Adrian turned to her, and raised his eyebrows as he waited for the question.

"Before the attacks, you were collaborating with Dr. Manhatta, yes?" the woman said, also holding out a mic that was connected to a cassette tape recorder on her hip.

"That is correct. He was facilitating research to duplicate his power in order to provide cheap, easily renewable energy to the entire world," Adrian replied, tilting his head like a puppy in anticipation of the inherent question.

Mr. Campbell stepped forward. "Is there a greater question in these statements of the obvious, Ms. Valencia?" he asked curtly.

"Of course," she replied confidently. "So, then, you spent a lot of time around him?" she asked.

"Are you implying, ma'am, that I foresaw these events in advance and simply kept my mouth shut?" Adrian said, and his tone was rather sharp.

"Well, as Earth's smartest man, we the public wouldn't expect any less of you," she said, and Grace gasped. No one, especially women, were ever terse with Adrian Veidt.

"Ms. Valencia, was it?" Adrian said, and the woman nodded slowly. "I am incredibly intelligent. Not an oracle. And while I was titled Earth's smartest man, I continue to believe that I am the second. It is Jon Osterman whose intellect outweighs my own. He is capable of witnessing and manipulating events on a molecular level, something that we as an inferior race compared to Dr. Manhattan, can hardly do. Therefore it can be said that he was, in fact, far more intelligent than I. If it is prophecy you expect of me, then I am sorry to disappoint. I could not have predicted these events any more than you could. Which, I must admit, disheartens me," Adrian said, and to Grace, it sounded like there was inherent insult in that statement. Apparently the reporter, Ms. Valencia, heard it too, and she leaned back, content in not aggravating one of the most powerful men on the planet.

"So what does the future hold for you and your company?" another male reporter called out.

"Well, in the immediate future, we will be one hundred and ten percent dedicated to the rebuilding of the world's major cities. And it is rather clear that my collaboration with Dr. Manhattan on energy sources will be put on an indefinite hold, pending Dr. Manhattan's return to Earth," Adrian said.

"So you don't think he should face consequences if and when he returns?" another reporter asked.

Adrian was silent for a long moment, and some of the reporters looked at each other in confusion.

"I think that someone as inconceivably complex as Dr. Manhattan would not do what he did without due rationale. I think, still with much sorrow for those lost, that his actions held the greater purpose of unifying this world in a peace; a peace that could not be achieved without sacrifice. That having been said, I do not think that Dr. Manhattan will ever return to Earth," Adrian finished, inclining his head.

Mr. Campbell stepped forward again. "Only a few more questions, please. As you can imagine, Mr. Veidt is a very busy man nowadays."

"I'm pulling from your justification of Dr. Manhattan's actions that you don't at all disapprove of what he did," another male reporter said, and Grace could tell from his tone that his follow-up question would probably not be very considerate. "You keep saying that you're sorry for the lives of those lost. I'm not really hearing that at all."

Adrian sighed, and when he spoke, there was clearly anger in it. "You act as if I have not lost anything in this, sir," Adrian said, and he was actually raising his voice. "I have lost more than you can possibly imagine. So do not presume to take my confidence as lack of empathy. I have not even begun to cope with this, as many people have not, and I will not be spoken to as if I have no compassion for the human condition," Adrian said, actually holding a finger out to this man like a scolding parent.

Mr. Campbell stepped forward, trying to nicely nudge Adrian away from the microphone. "No more questions. Thank you, everyone, for coming out," he said, and quickly ushered Adrian away from the podium so that he wouldn't continue harping on the man, who now wore a smug grin. Grace was sure that he would now be known as the one reporter to ever make Adrian Veidt lose his cool. It wasn't exactly something Grace would have been proud of in his position, but she wasn't a blood-sucking pencil pusher, so she wouldn't know.


	7. Chapter 7

I just want to begin by saying that within this chapter and the next, I am going to start to tackle issues that might be offensive to some people, such as religion and sexuality. I'm sorry if I offend, it's just that this is how I view the character, and it is _my view only._ I'm not going to change it, but if you find the material distasteful, feel free to boycott my work.

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Part 7

To say Adrian was fuming as Mr. Campbell led him away from the podium would have been an understatement. His jaw was set in obvious anger, and his fists were clenched so tightly that Grace was afraid the finally-healing wound on his right palm might break open.

She rushed forward, speaking low. "Hey. Don't get all thrown out of place by this. He's just a guy. A pencil-pushing, average Joe. Don't let him unhinge you."

Adrian sighed, bowing his head and unclenching his fists. "You're right. It's just…" he paused, licking his lips and squinting against the sun. "People assume that since I'm a man of power, that I am invincible. That I haven't lost a damn thing in this. They can't even fathom the magnitude of what I have lost."

"Then why don't you tell them?" she said, and it really sounded more like "tell me."

All expression left his face, and it seemed like he might turn to stone right there. "Because. They have their own plight. They don't want to hear about mine. Besides… it would just give them another reason to tell me that I don't know what suffering is."

Grace had nothing to say to that because, the truth was, he was right. People always assumed the rich didn't suffer. That they could buy their way out of sadness. This was just people taking out their anger and depression from the attacks on the easiest prey. And categorizing Adrian Veidt as easy prey was not something that could have been done beforehand.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of press releases and paperwork. While Grace had started to title herself as Adrian's caretaker, there were still times when she couldn't look after him all of the time. There was a private meeting amongst the executives and Veidt, and she just wasn't permitted to attend. So, Adrian told her to deal with her own problems and stop trying to solve his.

So, she went to the bank on Roosevelt Island to request a collection on her homeowners insurance, and cancel all of her utility bills. After all, that nice flat of hers in upstate New York was now reduced to square footage in the statistics of ruin. But, as it turned out, the entire population of New York had the same idea. The line went out the front door of the bank, and ran a block long. So, she decided to freshen up a bit.

Luckily her accounts were still active, so she bought some new clothes. After all, she'd been in the same dress pants and blouse for four days, and her wardrobe was hardly accessible. Even in her college years, she hadn't gone that long without changing. She'd been constantly spraying on layers of perfume, which was ironically Veidt's brand, but it was starting to fade, and she was out of perfume.

Now where could she go? She _desperately_ needed a shower, and she was pretty much one hundred percent sure that all hotels even relatively close were full. So she did what she thought was her only option. She went back to Veidt's apartment. After all, he was going to be in meetings all afternoon.

She used the key she had been given… okay taken, but nonetheless, she was in Veidt's quiet penthouse half an hour later. She used the shower in the secondary bathroom, feeling a bit awkward about using his… she wasn't sure why.

In her opinion, that shower was probably the best shower in the history of human bathing customs. She felt like she could actually see her sorrow and grief from the last few days falling off with the dust and grime. She shampooed and conditioned twice, just to make sure the "ew" was gone. And damn… it made her wonder about Veidt's sexuality. If there was a heaven on Earth, this company bottled its smell and put it in their hair care products. It made her want to shampoo a third time, but she denied herself to avoid wasting all of Adrian's shampoo.

Wrapping herself in a terry-cloth towel, she decided to explore his apartment more thoroughly since he wasn't here. She grabbed a comb, which contrary to popular belief, is not made for brushing hair that classifies as a mane. After breaking several of its prongs, she decided to finger-comb her hair as she aimlessly walked around his apartment. Nothing in the foyer was of any greater interest than it had been yesterday, so she walked into his bedroom.

His bed was neatly made, and there was nothing out of place. There was no way he was straight. Completely, any way. No man on Earth lived this clean.

She raided his closet to find that it was all dress shirts, dress pants, and some high-end sweaters. What, no Hawaiian flower prints? No man was complete without Hawaiian flower prints. She grinned to herself as she pulled out drawers of his black dresser. Aha! Boxer briefs; the best of both worlds.

Everything was well organized; not a single garment out of place. So she decided to go for the one place that would tell her something about him; his bedside table.

She bit her lip as she pulled on the top drawer; there might be _very_ revealing things in here. She almost felt bad about it. Almost.

A… bible! She would never have expected Adrian Vedit to have a bible. Especially one that looked like the original. She raised her eyebrows in astonishment before shunting it (nicely) aside to go through his other belongings. Beneath it was the old picture of the Watchmen; the Comedian on the far left, Silk Spectre, Dr. Manhattan, Adrian, Nite Owl, and Rorschach on the right.

Grace lifted a hand and ran a finger over Dr. Manhattan. It seemed so simple, looking at an image of the man that destroyed her life, and snatched the lives of others. It seemed ironic that it would be sitting under the bible. The only being that could snatch lives as quickly as the Supreme Being, pictured simply, right next to Adrian. She sighed, thinking of Mr. Luca and Mr. Campbell, who probably prayed every night until the accident. Had they lost their faith? They were probably doubting why their God would let someone… well, not _Him_ do such a thing. That considered, what did Adrian believe? She would have thought, being the smartest man, that he would consider all things rationally… that he wouldn't acknowledge the existence of something he couldn't prove.

"Well, this is every man's fantasy," came a voice from behind her, and she actually screamed as she spun around to see Adrian, one hand in his pocket, the other behind his back, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Walking into their bedroom to see a woman, wearing only a towel, going through his belongings."

"I…" she stammered. "I wasn't… I was just…" she stopped trying, and stared down at her bare feet, feeling very… naked.

Adrian stepped closer, and plucked the picture from her fingers. "Find anything of interest?" he asked, and it implied that he already knew the answer.

"No," she said sheepishly, and he smiled.

"Unfortunately, I learned quite recently to never keep damning information in a place where someone else can easily access it," he said, staring down at the picture.

"So…" she began, backing farther away in the hopes that no extra skin would peek through the towel. Gay or not, she still didn't want to be nude in front of him. "Where do you keep it?"

He grinned, and took another step closer, so his breath was making the remaining water droplets on her face chill and crawl down her skin. He simply tapped his temple, grinning somewhat sadistically. "In here," he said.

"I see," she said, and continued to back away. "I noticed you have a, um… a bible," she said, in a last-ditch effort to save herself and get out of this.

"Ah, yes," he said, returning the picture to the drawer and pulling out the tattered book. "It was my mother's. It's a good read."

He _would_ say that about the bible.

"But do you… believe?" she asked, trying to position herself so that she could run out the door and to her clothes should any… mishaps occur.

"Rather vague question, don't you think?" he said, opening the book. "Do I believe in what? God? The existence of an afterlife? The visitation of Jesus to Earth? Was Jesus even divine, or just a prophet? It is difficult for me to answer these. God? Possibly. I suppose I'm what you call Nostic; a truth seeker. Not the old Greek description of a Nostic, who by definition was faithless in all things. The modern definition; a man who refuses judgment until proof is found and validated. But, as a scientific mind, I must acknowledge the existence of unexplained phenomena. So do I believe? Absolutely. Am I willing to stake my life upon it? Absolutely not," Adrian said, and tossed the book back into the drawer.

Grace's mouth hung open. She hadn't expected such a deep answer, but she shouldn't have expected anything less from him.

"Wow," she said, and realized exactly how close he was. Would a gay man be that close? "I never thought of it that way."

"I tend to have that effect," he said, and if possible, moved closer. "Now if you wouldn't mind," he continued, and for a second she thought his hand was touching her stomach. She shuddered and looked down, to see her new clothes in his hand.

"Oh, yes. Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I was just… curious," she said, tentatively taking her clothes from him and holding tightly to the towel with her other hand.

"About what?" he said, finally stepping back, which she was incredibly thankful for.

She stammered for an answer that wasn't "your sexuality."

He read her face. "Do me a favor," he said. "On my bookshelf in the sitting room, there is a book entitled Alexander the Great by Ulrich Wilcken. In that, you may find the answer you seek. To this question, anyway."

"And, um," she said, with slightly more confidence. "What question, exactly, do you think I'm asking?"

He just smiled, and everything in that smile said, "I know exactly what you're asking."


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 8**

Despite trying not to give in to whatever Adrian told her to do, she retrieved the book immediately after putting on her clothes, and began flipping through it. She flopped down on the couch and gazed up at the clock. 4:47pm. She hadn't realized it was that late, and come to think of it, she hadn't realized how hungry she was. The last meal she'd had had been the cereal, and she hadn't even gotten to finish it. But her curiosity was stronger than her hunger, so she flipped a few pages.

At first, it was just information about Alexander's father, Phillip. It set up what was to be Alexander's military prowess, and bequeathed locations and dates. But then it began to describe the man that was Alexander, and it didn't take her long to happen across the information that she was positive Adrian wanted her to find.

Bisexual. Alexander the Great had been bisexual.

Grace hadn't noticed her mouth was hanging open until she nearly drooled. She slammed her mouth shut, and stared up at the clock. She had been reading for nearly an hour. She had no idea she was that interested in this book. She flopped it down on the coffee table, and then shivered when she straightened, realizing that there was a breeze at her back.

She spun her head around, and peered through Adrian's open bedroom door. His floor-length drapes were blowing inward, trying desperately to reach the bed, but failing. She got up and tentatively walked into his room, and realized, with some surprise, that there hadn't been windows behind those drapes, but doors leading out to a magnificent balcony.

Standing on the balcony, his elbows resting on the railing and a glass of red wine in one hand, was Adrian.

"Find your answer?" he said, and it was more of a statement than a question.

"Maybe," she said, pulling her v-neck sweater up higher on her neck as she approached the railing. The sight below was still just as pitiful as it was during the day; just less was visible with the sun's current location on the horizon. "I thought you… wouldn't look at it," she said, leaning against the railing and gesturing to the city.

"I must," he said, and there was unbelievable grief in that statement. "I must accept what… happened."

"Not if it hurts you," she said, studying his face.

"We must persist. Through pain, we must persist," he replied, and she sighed.

They stared at the pitiful ruins of the city for a long time, Adrian occasionally sipping at his wine. The cool breeze blew her brunette hair about, and she actually reveled in the feeling.

"So," she began anew, her voice very gentle. "I got one answer. But I'm still looking for others."

Adrian turned his head and looked her dead in the eyes. "There really is no way around this, is there?"

"Probably not. My mother calls me Grace the Ass. Because I'm stubborn like a donkey, not because…" she trailed off when Adrian smiled at the explanation.

"Well, I will give you what will hopefully suffice as answers, but please know this; I _cannot_ tell you the whole truth. Do you still want to hear it?" he asked, looking back out over the city.

"Yes. Yes, I do," she said, turning to face him and just leaning her left side on the rail.

"What do you want to know first?" he asked, taking a swig of wine but looking like he might spit it back out.

"Who… hurt you? I've seen the advertisements. The Titans themselves would have a hard time beating you up. A fact that was proven to me by…" she paused, thinking back to the image of him in his towel, the portrait of perfection. "Your perfect body. And I say that completely objectively." Maybe not _completely_ objectively.

"It was an old friend. I did something that… aggravated him terribly. He wasn't happy with me," he replied, staring down into his glass as if the Loch Ness monster might jump out of it.

"And he attacked you?" she prodded softly.

"Yes. And I let him. You see, what I did was… morally questionable, but what I deemed as necessary," Adrian said.

"I'm guessing you aren't going to tell me what it was that you did?" she asked.

"You would be correct," he said.

"Okay. What about the glass pyramid in Antarctica? How on Earth did that end up destroyed from halfway up?" she asked, studying his face but finding no reaction.

"Well, it is obvious it was not caused by tremors. So in that, I lied. But that is as much as I am prepared to tell you," he said.

She nodded. "And I have something else… a much deeper question. You may choose not to answer it, because I know it may be difficult," she said, moving closer to him subconsciously.

"I will let you know, then," he said, looking at her questioningly.

"Well… where do I start. I was never that close to you. I was not a personal secretary, and before this I had only met you four times. But I came to the conclusion that you are… different than you were before. You were the epitome of success; a businessman with virtually unlimited power, and a true source of hope for children in your career as Ozymandias. But never, never in my time here working for you, did I ever see you acting the way you are now. Perhaps I was too far removed from the situation to see. Perhaps your personal secretaries saw the things I'm seeing now. But I doubt it. And I want to know why. What is hurting you badly, Adrian?" she finished, searching his eyes.

Adrian stared at her for a moment, then looked away as if she would read the answer in his eyes. She wished she could have.

"I will answer it. But I will answer it in the form of another question. Have you ever done something you thought was right… you _knew_ in your heart was right, but that others did not agree with?" he said, swirling the wine in his glass.

She thought back to a day in college, when she had ratted on a friend about drug using. He had been a close friend… no, more than a friend. At one point, she thought she loved him. But his lifestyle had been killing him, so she turned him in. He hated her for that. He went to prison, and later went to rehabilitation for drug addiction. He had severed all ties with her, and in that she had lost virtually all of her friends. But she saved him nonetheless, and five years later, when he was released from prison and rehab, he had contacted her and thanked her. He said that he would have ended up dead in a ditch somewhere with a needle in his veins had she not done what she did. Now, they still kept in touch, and last she heard, he had a wife and two beautiful kids. She had known at the time that ratting on him was the right thing to do, but he and all their shared friends had disagreed. But in the end, she saved a man who was truly good at heart, just needed help.

"Yes," she said, more conviction in her voice than intended.

"You knew it was right, but you lost everything in the process?" Adrian continued.

"Yes," she replied.

"And you still believe it was the right thing to do?" he asked again.

"Yes," she said.

"And it haunted you… tortured you for the longest time?" he asked.

Grace considered. "Of course."

"That-" he began. "That is what is hurting me."


	9. Chapter 9

A note: I went with what happened to the cities in the movie instead of the graphic novel, just because it seemed easier at the time. Sorry if that bothers you.

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* * *

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Part 9

There was so much more she wanted to know. What had he done that was supposedly so morally unacceptable? But he had given her more than she expected, and she didn't want to pry. Plus he seemed… oddly drained. He'd kept up this mask all day; it was about time he fell apart again. But for now, he seemed okay. She stayed on the balcony with him for what seemed like an eternity. With Veidt, silence wasn't awkward. It was just… silent. She half expected to see the sun coming up soon.

She sighed, and turned to head back inside.

"Well, I think I've worn out my welcome," she said as she entered his bedroom.

Without any warning, his hand was clasped around her upper arm so hard she yelped.

"Please don't," he said, and his eyes were wide. "Don't leave."

She cocked her head to the side, considering. She hadn't even expected him to _want _her there. She just figured she had a kind of obligation to look after him.

"You're… you're all I have left," he said, and she noticed his hand shaking where it grasped her. "It's pathetic, and stupid, and weak… but you're the closest thing I've got to a friend nowadays."

She noticed his breathing quickening, and went straight into caretaker mode.

"Whoa, it's okay," she said, turning back to face him and touching his arm sympathetically. "I won't go anywhere. I'll stay," she said, looking him warmly in the eyes.

He nodded shakily, and looked down.

She waited for a second before whispering, "you're cutting off the circulation in my hand."

"Oh, sorry," he said, pulling his hand away as if she'd stung him.

"Adrian, it's okay. Whatever this is, I'll help you through it. I don't have to know the specifics. I don't have anywhere else to go, no other tasks more important than helping you. It's pathetic, and stupid, and weak…" he grinned as she quoted him, "but you are my number one priority now."

She hadn't meant it to sound like a lame monologue from a movie, but it did nonetheless. It didn't matter, however, because it fended off the panic attack Adrian had been about to fall into. She just stared at him for a moment, and a thought struck her.

Was she starting to care for him? More than just an employee who sees their boss suffering? That scared her.

She steeled herself, and raised her head so she could look him in the eyes.

"Why don't I make something to eat? We both need some nourishment," she said, and he nodded.

She walked into the kitchen, making sure that Adrian was right behind her. She was beginning to ponder exactly what she could make when Adrian stepped forward and smiled.

"You've done enough for me. I'll do this," he said, and confidently began pulling out random food ingredients and pans.

He cooked too? He _had_ to be all-gay. No (semi) straight guy was smart, sexy, _and_ a cook. That would just tear a hole in the universe.

She stepped back and sat at the silver table she'd sat at that morning, and peeked at the clock on the oven- 8:13. Had they really been out on the balcony that long?

Regardless of her apparent ignorance of the passing of time, Adrian continued to throw things together for a good half hour. She was about to ask if she could help, when he turned around and smiled.

"Lettuce wraps?" he said, and it almost sounded like he was attempting to say it happily.

"You can make those without meat?" she asked, walking over and examining his (very scrumptious-looking) concoction.

"Sure. Just up the amount of water chestnuts and bamboo shoots," he said, and she almost blurted "why are the perfect ones always (half) gay?" but contained herself.

Of course, half gay was still half straight, right? Good enough for her.

She smiled at him and made herself a plate. It felt oddly like… home.

They ate in relative silence, but again, there was nothing awkward about it. It was strangely comforting, just knowing the other person was there, but not having to break the perfection with words.

When they were finished, Grace insisted on cleaning, and Adrian eventually let her, muttering something about "Grace the Ass." He promptly disappeared, and when he returned he stated that the guest room was ready for her. She hadn't noticed a guest room when she explored the first time…

He led her to a room just to the left of the workout room, where she found that it hadn't previously _been_ a guest room. When she had explored, it had been just another library with a couch and a few bookshelves. Apparently it was a pullout couch, and he had completely prepared it for her.

"I don't know how to thank you," she said, smiling sheepishly. "I mean, I really feel like I'm imposing."

"I asked you to stay. It's not imposing when you've got an invite," he replied, smiling. "And it's I who should be thanking you. You held me together when I almost fell apart before my speech. It was you who somehow got me to return here when all I wanted to do was freeze to death on the steps of the Pyramid base in Antarctica. Don't consider it imposing."

She thanked him, and watched as he walked to his room, rubbing his head. She was reminded of her high-school mythology class as she watched him walk away; the Titan Atlas, holding the weight of the world on his shoulders. She didn't know how he was going to make it through this, but she was determined to help.

As she slept, she continued to dream of the city. Her subconscious placed her at the heart of it, standing alone, staring at a huge cobalt… energy ball of some kind. It reminded her of the toys she used to love as a child; the ones you touch and the static follows your fingers. She smiled to herself as she reached up to touch it, wondering if this one would do the same. The second she touched it, it expanded like a sponge in water, swallowing her whole and deconstructing her body like a G.I. Joe toy.

She screamed, sitting straight up in her bed, rapidly feeling of her own body to make sure it was still in tact. She panted for a moment while her sanity returned, and peered around the dark room. A digital clock reading 3:55 glowed bright green from the table next to the pullout couch. She sighed, pushing her hair back with a slightly trembling hand, and realized that she was sweating pretty badly. She also realized that she had to use the restroom very urgently.

Padding out of her room and squinting against the light, she did her business, shutting off the light and turning to return to her room. She paused, however, noticing that there were lights pouring down the hall from the sitting area. She shivered, her bare legs showing under the big shirt she was wearing to sleep in as she shuffled into the sitting room. Adrian was sitting on the couch in just a pair of pants, head in his hands.

"Adrian," she said, but he didn't look up. "Adrian, it's almost four in the morning, what are you…"

When he looked up at her, he looked sickly pale… deathly pale. His lips had very little color in them, just as his cheeks didn't, and his eyes were red and bloodshot. There were dark circles below his eyes, and he was shivering lightly.

"It seems you had the same problem I did," he whispered, his hands miserably gripping handfuls of his hair.

She scurried over, sitting on the couch, shivering as the cold leather hit her bare thighs. She laid a hand on his back comfortingly, and stared at his face for answers.

"Nightmare," he continued. "I heard you scream."

"Oh, yeah. It's happened a lot since the attacks," she said, pushing her sweat-damp hair out of her face. She noticed Adrian's was slightly wet too.

"What was yours about?" she asked quietly, rubbing his back (completely innocently) and realizing that he was actually hot to the touch.

"What do you think?" he scoffed, rubbing his forehead and disheveling his hair. "Exactly what yours was about."

"Did you get any decent sleep?" she asked.

"Not in a week. Every time, I just see… the attacks. I see people's faces, looking at me as they die. They ask me why…" he paused, gritting his teeth and speeding up his words rather frantically. "I just can't do it anymore," he said, and she noticed he was gripping his hair so hard he might pull it out.

"It's just a dream," she tried, feeling like a teenaged babysitter as she said it.

"No!" he gasped, turning to face her, and there was unbelievable grief in his face, his eyes. "That's the problem. It's not."

He stood quickly, and Grace pulled her hand back, watching him. She could see the thoughts crossing his face, and he quickly turned and walked to his bedroom. He was walking like… like he had a purpose. In his current state of mind, it probably wasn't a good purpose.

"Adrian," she said cautiously, following him as he walked into his bathroom. His hands shook as he wrenched the medicine cabinet open "Adrian," she said with more conviction, beginning to figure out what he was thinking. "That's not the answer."

"It is. I have to sleep. I can't…" he said, and his voice broke as he pulled out a tiny clear jar labeled Lorazepam and then a syringe. "I can't look at their faces anymore. I just can't."

His hands still shook as he lifted the tiny jar upside down and went to stick the needle through its rubber stopper.

"Adrian!" she said, laying a hand on his forearm, stopping him. He stopped, but didn't lower his hands. "Don't," she said. "I can help you. I _will_ help you through this."

He thought for a moment, then violently shrugged her hand off, and went back to inserting the needle in the jar. "There is absolutely nothing you can do that will help me."

He pulled a gram or so into the syringe, and then tapped it with a finger to make the bubbles rise to the top, where he pushed them out. He shoved past her, quite rudely, and flopped to a sitting position on his bed, where he took a deep breath and raised the needle to his arm.

"Adrian, please don't do this. Drugging yourself isn't the answer. What is that, anyway?" she asked, hoping she could slow his determination with questions.

"Lorazepam," he said. "It's marketed as Atavan. It's just an anxiolytic and a sedative. I'll fall into a dreamless sleep. Then maybe they'll leave me alone," he said, and she noticed his lower lip trembling.

She sighed, sinking onto the bed next to him. "I'm not talking you out of this, am I?" she asked, looking at him.

He half grinned, but it was obviously fake. "No. Call me Adrian the Ass."

She sighed, and he reached over and flipped his bedside lamp on, holding out his arm inner-elbow up. He raised the syringe and took a deep breath to cease his shaking.

"Mach, dass es aufhört," he said, and plunged it into the vein.

Grace had to look away when little white spots started dancing across her field of vision and her ears began to ring. She had almost forgotten that she was a bit squeamish.

She knew he was finished when she heard him set the syringe on his bedside table. She looked back at him as he sank back against his pillows and waited for the drug to kick in. She just sat with him, watching and waiting. When it was obvious he was starting to slip into sleep, she reached over and took his hand. Not in any kind of romantic way; just to let him know she was still there.


	10. Chapter 10

**Part 10**

Grace couldn't help the undeniable pity she felt for Veidt. She also had an incredible urge to learn German. He kept saying things in German, and her curiosity was ready to eat her from the inside out. Of course, if he was saying things in another language, it probably meant that he didn't want her to understand.

Typical.

He slept for almost eight hours straight. She checked on him regularly, and found that watching him sleep was very comforting. It humanized him, in a way. He was finally at peace, at least for a small while. And while he slightly resembled a child, she couldn't help but feel that she cared… shouldn't have… but did.

She never expected to be in this predicament, but when she thought about it, she really was glad. She was helping someone, someone who desperately needed it. She couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if they hadn't flown out to Antarctica and retrieved him. Would he have died there? It wasn't out of reach, especially considering what bad shape he'd been in. Would he have frozen first, or starved? She shuddered, just thinking about it.

After making sure he was still sleeping, she decided to get some things done. The offices were just as deserted as ever, and sitting at her desk on the twelfth floor felt oddly like sitting in the middle of an empty field.

Going through financials and billing paperwork for Veidt Enterprises was a task that was tedious, took an extremely long time to complete, and was supposed to be someone else's job. But considering all the people who usually did that were… M.I.A., it was now Grace's job. She spent at least two hours filling out bills and stamping them with Veidt's signature (everyone who did his paperwork was given a stamp of his signature; getting him to actually sign them all would take until the second Ice Age). And even then, she wasn't even a quarter of the way through them.

She sighed, stretched, and peeked at the clock on her computer; almost 2pm. She grunted, and went to retrieve a cup of coffee from the employee rest lounge. She figured Veidt had to be up by now, and was probably in another meeting of some kind. So, she returned to the paperwork stack on her desk that seemed to be growing larger instead of smaller.

The next bill to be tackled; flight bills. Contrary to popular belief, the rich don't get free rides, even if they own the helicopter. You still have to pay the pilot, pay for fuel, and any maintenance necessary on the aircraft.

Grace's eyes were getting ready to just shrivel up in her eye sockets and eat her brain, when she started noticing a strange trend in the flight records. In the last few months, Veidt had taken consecutive flights to Beijing, Moscow, Los Angeles, Paris… all the cities that were destroyed in Dr. Manhattan's attacks. Her heart sank, and her face flushed hot. Had he known?

However, when turning the page, she realized that there were Pyramid bases in all of those cities, and under the flight records, it read "annual facility check by owner."

And, when she looked at records from previous years, he did exactly the same thing each year, around the same time. She sighed, chastising herself for even considering that he knew about the attacks in advance.

She finished a few more, stamping and typing records into the computer's database. She was just finishing the flight records when two men walked past her desk, talking hurriedly and in hushed tones. She recognized one of them as Mr. Luca, the other executive that had come with them to Antarctica.

"…had a meeting today at 1:30," he was saying.

"And he just didn't show?" the other man asked, and Luca nodded. "That's not like him. He's always prudent about arriving…" the man's voice trailed off as he walked farther away from her desk.

"Shit," she breathed, and rocketed to her feet, her wheeled office chair scurrying backwards as if running away. She set all the papers on her desk, grabbed her key, and ran for the elevator. She was sure people would have considered her crazy, had there been any people around to see her frantically pressing the elevator button and cursing under her breath.

When the elevator arrived, she shoved through the doors before they even opened, and slammed her fist on the twentieth floor button. The doors closed, but nothing happened.

"Damn it," she cursed, and shoved the key into the slot, turning it, and then pressed twenty. Her brain wasn't working correctly with all the worry.

When the elevator stopped, she nearly ran into the doors as they slowly opened.

"Come on," she hissed as they slid open, and she ran in.

"Adrian?" she called, throwing her key onto the coffee table. She ran to his room first, but no Adrian. She then checked both bathrooms, the workout room, the guest room… no sign of him.

She ran back out into the living room, her hand on her forehead as she hysterically tried to think. His bed was neatly made, that meant he had woken up… but where…

That was when she noticed that his bedroom drapes were moving slightly, and light was pouring in.

She practically threw herself back into his bedroom, almost tripping over her own feet as she yanked the drapes back to reveal the open patio doors. At first, as she scanned the balcony, she missed him. But when she looked closer, he was curled into a ball against the railing, hidden in shadow, hands wrapped around his knees.

"Adrian!" she said, and her relief was easily noticeable in her voice. She ran to him and collapsed next to him, laying a hand on his arm. "Mr. Luca said you had a meeting, why didn't you…"

"Alone," he interrupted, his voice shrouded since his head was buried in his knees. "I woke up, completely alone."

Oh, man. He was really falling apart. Now he couldn't be alone?

"I'm sorry, I just figured I'd get some things done. You were sleeping, and…"

He yanked his head up and looked at her, and his face was pure anger. "Do _not_ do that again."

She was speechless. She didn't know how to respond. But she didn't have to. Adrian shoved away from her and stood, walking back to the glass doors. But as he entered his bedroom, he wavered, and fell against the glass door, barely catching himself. She hurried over to him, supporting him. She was about to ask what was wrong, when she noticed the bottle of Lorazepam and another syringe on his bedside table. There appeared to be less in the jar than after he'd taken it last night.

"Oh Adrian, what did you do?" she asked, moving his hair from his face gently.

"I…" his voice broke, and he swallowed hard. "I was panicking, and it wouldn't stop. It just wouldn't stop… I…" he closed his eyes tight, rubbing his temples with a hand. "It was a smaller dose, so I wouldn't sleep. I just had to make it stop. I had to…" he began repeating himself, and Grace furrowed her eyebrows in pity.

"Shh," she cooed, feeling again reminiscent of her high school babysitting days. "It's okay. I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you. I shouldn't have left. I'm sorry."

He just stood there for a moment, then collapsed against her, sobbing tearlessly and gasping for air. "It won't stop. Make it stop," he begged, and then slid down to the floor. She wasn't strong enough to hold up his full weight, so she just let him fall in a heap to the floor, kneeling next to him and wrapping an arm around him.

"It's okay," she said, not knowing of anything else _to_ say. "I'm here now, I won't go anywhere."

She just held him for the longest time, disgusted with herself for bringing him to this. She hated to think that he might be resorting to the Atavan when he didn't know what else to do. But then again, this was Adrian Veidt. He _always _knew what to do.

Apparently not anymore.


	11. Chapter 11

**Part 11**

They sat together in the doorway of the balcony for the longest time, Grace with her arms around him, rocking him like a child. She couldn't help the impending feeling that he _wouldn't_ make it through this. He was constantly getting worse, not better. Now he couldn't sleep, couldn't be alone, and more importantly, wouldn't eat.

After he finally calmed, she tried making him eat something, but he just pushed the plate away and dropped his head into his palms. The wound on his right hand was almost completely healed, but it was the least of Grace's worries.

She called down to the offices and had Mr. Campbell bring all of her paperwork up to Veidt's apartment, not even caring to give an explanation on why she was there anymore. She usually sat on her pullout bed and did the paperwork, but as the week went on, Veidt would have memory-loss spells, and he would forget where she was, and panic looking for her. So she resorted to sitting on his bed, while he either lay there with her, motionless, or stood on the balcony for hours on end. He was now almost wholly dependant on her, and when he wasn't, he was dependant on Atavan.

He began to panic every morning when he woke up, and had to take a shot of Atavan just to make it through the day. She knew she shouldn't let him become dependant on it, but what else could she do? He would panic, and now she couldn't talk him down. Nothing mattered anymore, and he was regressing into his own mind, not speaking for days, and when he did, they were choppy, non-articulated sentences. She had to cancel all of his upcoming meetings, fearing that he wouldn't be able to handle them.

She eventually got so worried that she called a doctor, against Veidt's word. He was a middle-aged, very highly recommended man named William Schiaca. Dr. Schiaca didn't usually make house calls, but of course, he made an exception when he heard whom the patient was. She paid him extra to keep this confidential, and he gladly obliged. She met him in the foyer of the Veidt building, and led him up to Adrian's penthouse, explaining while on the way.

"It started after the attacks," she was saying as they rode the elevator up. "He hasn't slept well, if at all."

"What do you mean by that? He tosses and turns, or…" Dr. Schiaca asked.

"No…" she said, wondering exactly how much to tell him. "He has nightmares. And he didn't eat much, but in the last couple of days, he really hasn't eaten anything. He has frequent panic attacks, too. He's just… he's just falling apart, it seems."

"Alright. I think I have an idea, but I'll have to look at him first. Has he been taking anything?" Dr. Schiaca asked as the elevator stopped on twenty.

"Yes," she said, lowering her voice. "He's been taking Atavan to get to sleep."

"Okay," Dr. Schiaca said, shrugging off his coat and handing it to Grace so she could hang it on the coat rack.

"And Doctor," she said, continuing to keep her voice low. "He doesn't know you're here. He told me not to call you, it's just…" she paused, wringing her fingers. "I'm worried."

"Not a problem," he said, smiling graciously. "It happens frequently."

"Okay. Just let me go tell him you're here," she said, and he nodded as she turned to walk into Veidt's bedroom. "He's not gunna be happy with me," she said under her breath.

When she opened the door, he was lying sideways on his bed, on top of the covers, staring blankly out the glass doors. She sat on the bed behind him, but he didn't even acknowledge her presence.

"Adrian," she said, rubbing his shoulder. "Adrian, I'm worried about you. You've just been getting worse and worse, and I don't know what to do anymore."

He didn't reply, just kept staring out the doors. The afternoon light was pouring in, warming their clothes and the bed. She would have considered it wonderful, in any other circumstance.

"So I called someone," she said hesitantly, and sure enough, he bolted upright, staring at her.

"I told you," he began, and she could hear half panic and half anger in his voice. "I told you not to."

"I know, but you've just been…" she paused, searching for a word but failing. "He promises to keep it confidential."

"That's what they all say," he said angrily, clenching his jaw. "Grace, I told you…" he began, but didn't finish. She could tell he was angry, but it seemed like he would panic again. His breathing was quickening, and his fists were clenched tightly on the bedspread.

"Hello, Mr. Veidt," Dr. Schiaca said from the doorway, and Adrian rocketed to his feet, trying his best to pull off "fine."

"Hello," Adrian said in that same charade of a voice that was meant to fool everyone. "I don't know why she called you, everything is…"

"Mr. Veidt," Dr. Schiaca said, interrupting Adrian's sentence. "I realize that you have to hold a reputation amongst the general public, and I understand that. But I'm not the general public, and I have proven many times, through various celebrities, that when I say 'confidential', I mean confidential."

Adrian considered him for a moment, then balled his fists again and slumped back onto the bed, obviously giving up on trying to fool Dr. Schiaca. Grace gave the doctor a "see what I mean" look, and he nodded.

Dr. Schiaca set down his briefcase, and approached Adrian where he sat slumped on the side of the bed.

"Mr. Veidt," Schiaca said, kneeling in front of him. "I am a professional. I want to help you. So I need you to tell me the truth."

_Uh oh_, Grace thought, and Adrian's head whipped up so he could look the doctor straight in the eyes. He started to breathe heavily again, and she noticed his hands shaking.

"Don't say that," Grace said, knowing she was speaking as if Adrian weren't there but not caring in the least. "Don't say that. He can't. He can't tell you the whole truth. He hasn't even told _me_ the whole truth."

Dr. Schiaca nodded, obviously noticing Adrian's panicky reaction to that statement.

"Alright, then," he said, looking back at Adrian and studying him. "Then you don't have to tell me anything. I'll just ask you a series of simple questions, and you answer them if you choose, okay?"

Adrian nodded shakily, and his hands thankfully slowly stopped trembling.

"These panic attacks," Dr. Schiaca said, pulling what looked like a pen from his coat pocket. "Are they sudden?"

He clicked the end of the pen thing, and a light came out of the end of it. He held it up and started examining Adrian's eyes.

"Yes," Adrian said, and she noticed that the fake voice was gone; it was just his broken, weak new voice. "Every time I wake up in the morning."

"And what are the symptoms?" Schiaca asked, returning his penlight to his jacket pocket and writing something on a clipboard he pulled from his briefcase.

"I feel like I can't breathe," Adrian said, staring forward as if the doctor wasn't even there. "Like there's an anvil on my chest. And I shake really bad. And I feel… afraid. More afraid than I've ever been."

"Is there a thought, or something to that regard that sets them off?" Schiaca asked, and Adrian snapped out of his trance to stare at the doctor.

"Uh, yes," Grace answered for him. "I think there is, but he can't tell you what it is."

Adrian looked at Grace, and she could see the pure relief he felt at not having to answer that question.

"Alright, that's fine," Schiaca said, but she could tell he was reeling to know. "And what about the sleeping problem? Is it that same thought that is provoking your nightmares?"

Adrian shuddered all over, obviously thinking about whatever it was he'd done that was torturing him so. "Yes," he said, and it sounded like saying that one simple word was incredibly difficult.

Dr. Schiaca then put his pointer and middle finger on the pressure point on Adrian's wrist, and took his pulse over the span of a minute.

"You take the Atavan every night?" he asked.

"Yes," Adrian said, but he didn't elaborate.

"He's actually started to take it during the day, too. In smaller doses. He needs it to be able to function," Grace said, and Adrian tossed her a look that clearly said "you didn't have to share that information."

Schiaca then nodded to Adrian, stood, and beckoned Grace to follow him as he exited the bedroom. Grace looked back to see Adrian sitting stone still, staring straight out the window. She sighed in defeat as she slowly shut the door.

"So," she asked, turning to face Dr. Schiaca. "What do you think?"

"Well, with everything he's told me, his symptoms exactly match post-traumatic stress syndrome," Schiaca said, removing his glasses and cleaning them. "Was he in one of the cities that was attacked? If he watched people die, that could easily be the cause."

"No, no he wasn't anywhere near any of the cities," she said, but didn't elaborate.

Dr. Schiaca paused, obviously disheartened that he hadn't found the answer.

"Is there a treatment for it? Because, I mean… he can't barely function anymore," she said, wringing her fingers. "He hasn't gone to any of his meetings, nothing. He just stays here and tries to stay… well, sane."

"Well, usually in cases like this, I recommend cognitive behavioral therapy, but obviously with his… celebrity status, that isn't really an option," he said, returning his spectacles to his face.

"Yeah, probably not," she said.

"Well, he's proven to be a textbook case. Usually the sufferer has a dependence on alcohol or benzodiazepines, which Atavan is. We've found that it can be worsened by that dependence. Treating dependency has shown to improve the sufferer's state of mind tremendously."

"You mean… make him stop taking the Atavan?" she asked.

"Yes," Schiaca replied.

"But… he can't sleep without it. He can't get up in the mornings without it," she said, and the doctor sighed.

"It will be very difficult at first, because it would get worse before it got better. But if he severed his dependence on it, he would start to recover," Dr. Schiaca said.

"Doc, _look at him_," she gasped. "You think he can handle it getting worse? Isn't there something you can give him?"

"Replacing one substance dependence with another is not the answer. Also, medications have proven to be less successful than therapy and addiction management."

"He's not addicted," she clipped. "Not yet, anyway."

"Well, Ms. Turner, there is only one other treatment that comes to mind," he said, running a hand through his graying hair. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. "It's called Critical Incident stress management. I usually don't recommend it, but it seems to be your only option."

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's kind of like cognitive behavioral therapy. The individual has to face whatever it was that caused their reaction."

"But… he wont tell me," she said.

"Well, you'll have to find out if you want any hope of helping him."


	12. Chapter 12

**Part 12**

As Grace slept that night, she dreamt of the city again. But this time it was different. The city wasn't destroyed yet. It was the buzzing center of industry that it had been before. She was walking down Main Street, people bustling about all around her, and the lights and sounds were as welcoming as ever. She smiled as she approached Times Square.

In the center of the intersection of Times Square, there was some kind of… machine. It was slightly orb-like, and it's surface looked like a gutted computer mixed with watch pieces. She tilted her head to the side as she approached it, curious of why the people all around her didn't seem to notice it.

Standing in front of it was a figure; she couldn't make out if it was male or female, because whoever it was was facing the machine. She walked closer, reaching for the person. Whoever it was slowly lifted a hand, pressing it against the machine.

The giant mechanism hummed and clicked like a lock, and the person half turned their head toward her, but she still couldn't make out any facial features. They said something, but it was muted like a television. She tried to move closer, but it was as if something were holding her back.

The person repeated what they'd said, but she still didn't hear. She craned her head to try to hear, only to realize that the orb was glowing blue. She reached out for the person, finally touching their shoulder. As she did, the blue essance expanded, dismembering her just as it had done in her many other dreams.

She sat straight up in her bed, panting and sweating. She pushed her long brunette tendrils out of her face, and slid sideways on her bed so that her legs were dangling off the side. That machine… it looked familiar. Like, she'd seen it before, somewhere. She sighed, and shuffled out of the guest room, flipping on a few lights as she went into the kitchen.

She grabbed a glass from a cabinet, filled it with water from the tap, and chugged. Where had she seen that machine? There was nothing in the world like it, so it should have been rather easy to place it in her memory. Then a memory-picture revealed itself.

It was a photograph. Veidt was on the left, smiling that smile that he rarely used anymore. On the left was Dr. Manhattan, wearing the suit he always wore in photographs and press releases. His face was stoic and emotionless, but then again, it always was. Between and behind them was this machine. It lingered over them, creating shadows on Veidt's elegantly chiseled face. But where had she _seen_ that photo?

Grace walked into the living room, where she set her glass on the coffee table and dropped to her knees to look through the books. Soon, she found her prey. There were countless magazines on the bottom shelf, and she pulled all of them out, causing the books that had been gathered around them to fall inwards.

They were all magazines featuring an article about Adrian. Time, Forbes, People; basically all the reputable magazines, and a couple non-reputable ones. She flipped through endless articles on how he gave away his inheritance to charity when his parents passed, and forged his empire from nothing. How he proved that the rags-to-riches stories can become reality. She lingered on a Fitness magazine, admiring the pictures for longer than she should have.

She finally found the picture. It was a recent issue of Time, and it was dedicated entirely to the issue of Veidt's work with Dr. Manhattan on creating new energy resources. In the middle of the article, there was the picture, and there was that machine. But why on Earth had she dreamed about it? She had only seen it a couple of times.

She sighed in disappointment, tossing the magazine back onto the shelf and leaning against the coffee table. She went to grab her glass from the table, when she heard something from Veidt's room. It sounded like he was… talking to someone.

She stood and scurried to his door, pushing it open quietly. Turned out, he was talking… in his sleep. But he'd taken Atavan… he shouldn't have been dreaming, which meant he shouldn't have been talking.

She stepped quietly in, walking to the side of his bed with the intention of waking him, but then she reconsidered. She could possibly get some answers from this.

It hurt her to stand there while it was obvious he was having a nightmare, but she tried her hardest to be objective.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, panting and gripping the sheets. She noticed a thin film of sweat covering him, and had to grasp her hands together to avoid waking him. "I'm sorry, Dan," he gasped, turning his head violently from side to side. His German accent was stronger as he spoke, and she barely understood him. "It had to be done. They would have killed each other. It had to be done."

He began repeating that statement over and over, and it was clear that his dream was becoming more violent. When he started thrashing and kicking, she decided it was time to wake him. She grasped his bare shoulders, and shook him lightly. "Adrian," she said loudly, and when he continued to thrash and repeat that phrase, she tried again.

"Adrian!" she said louder, shaking him again.

"No!" he practically screamed, throwing her off, and bolting upright. She stumbled backwards, noticing that he'd hit her in the face when he threw her off and given her a bloody nose. She wiped it away the best she could, only then noticing that he'd gone completely silent. She squinted against the darkness, and noticed that his eyes were wide open, and he was gasping for breath.

"Adrian," she said again, and he yelped and jumped away from her, nearly falling off the other side of the bed. "Adrian, it's okay, it's me. You were dreaming. I thought you weren't supposed to dream on Atavan?"

He panted for a moment, then flicked on the light and looked at her. His eyes widened more, if possible.

"Oh, God, I hit you," he said, and flipped his legs sideways and pulled her closer. "I'm sorry. I was… I was dreaming. I didn't… I would never…"

"It's fine Adrian," she said, finally thankful that he was actually talking to her.

"No, it's not," he said, wiping blood from her face with a tissue from his bedside table.

"I bleed easily," she said, taking the tissue and wiping at her own face. "I thought you werent supposed to dream?" she repeated.

He thought for a moment before looking back at her. "I'm not."

She stared back, puzzled. "Are you okay now?" she asked, noticing that he was still struggling for breath.

"I don't know," he said, and he looked a bit confused. "I feel… strange. It's not a panic attack, but…" he swallowed, and gasped for another breath. "I can't breathe."

When she studied him closer, she noticed that his pupils were horribly dilated, and his skin was a strange yellow color. He continued to gasp for air, clutching at his lungs.

She held her pointer and middle finger to his neck, trying to feel his pulse, when she noticed that his skin was hot… more than just warmth. This was fever-worthy. And when she checked his pulse, it didn't help. She had a hard time counting it was racing so fast. She held the back of her hand against his forehead, and it proved her fever theory.

"Adrian, you're burning up," she said, and he looked at her like he didn't understand a word she said. "Adrian, can you understand me?"

If possible, his pupils were getting smaller. And now it sounded like his airways were almost completely obstructed. He stared at the floor as he tried harder to breathe.

"Adrian, you need to relax," she said, trying to push him back to lie on his bed. He did, but he was disoriented, like he had forgotten she was there.

"Shit," she said to herself, and reached for the phone. She dialed Dr. Schiaca, nervously tapping the phone and repeating "pick up, pick up, pick up."

"Hello?" he answered groggily.

"Hi, it's Grace Turner. Sorry to wake you at such an early hour, but I have a problem," she said.

"What is it?" he asked, obviously still sleepy.

"Adrian… um, Mr. Veidt just woke up with a nightmare, and now he's… I don't know, it's not a panic attack. But he can't breathe, and his pupils are dilated, and he's confused," she said, watching him closely. He had begun trembling and looking around like he didn't know where he was.

"I'll be there in half an hour," he said.

"Uh, doc," she said, watching Adrian. "I don't think he'll make it half an hour."

Dr. Schiaca was obviously speechless.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"I'm staying with some relatives in Richmond," he said, and it was obvious he was making an effort to wake up.

"Is there anywhere near there that a helicopter can land?"

"Uhhh," the doctor stammered. "Yes, yes there is a helipad at the hospital near here."

"Can you get there easily?" she asked, her voice becoming frantic as Adrian began to panic from lack of air.

"Yeah, I suppose," Schiaca said.

"Good, get there ASAP," she said, and hung up.

She was dying to try to calm Adrian, but she dialed another number.

"Hello?" came another sleepy voice.

"Mr. Hargreeve?" she asked, hoping the pilot was in a good mood.

"Mm-hmm," he said sleepily.

"I have an emergency. I need you to be on the helipad at the Richmond Hospital as soon as possible to pick up a man named William Schiaca. Can you do that?" she asked.

The man didn't even question her. "Yes. Ms. Turner," he said, and she hung up.

Adrian was choking now, grasping at his neck and chest.

"Adrian," she whispered, kneeling on the bed next to him and wrapping an arm around him. "Shhh. Please try to calm down."

"Can't…" he gasped, trying to gulp air but only choking. "Breathe."

"I know. I called Dr. Schiaca, he's on his way," she said, stroking his sweaty blonde hair.

His hand reached out for hers, and when she took it, it was shaking and so weak that it barely wrapped around hers.

"Oh God, hurry up Hargreeve," she whispered, rocking Adrian and trying to calm him.

She stayed with him until the pilot called and said he had picked up Dr. Schiaca and they were on their way. She pulled back and studied Adrian, who was still struggling to breathe.

"I have to go put some pants on, will you be okay for a second?" she asked, figuring that being in a skimpy shirt and no pants wasn't exactly presentable.

He coughed, and didn't even attempt to answer. She groaned in pity, and dashed to her room and threw on some black sweats she bought.

She ran back to him and sat with him until Dr. Schiaca arrived, the elevator alerting her that he had entered the apartment. She silently thanked God that you didn't need a key to get from the helipad to Veidt's apartment, just from the other floors.

Dr. Schiaca ran into Veidt's bedroom, falling to his knees next to the bed.

"Please, step back Ms. Turner," he said, and she quickly obliged.

He took Adrian's vitals, checking his pupils, pulse, etc. He didn't look happy with the results.

"He's got a 126 degree fever," he said, shaking his head and pulling a syringe and bottle from his bag and quickly filling the syringe.

He neatly injected the liquid into Adrian's arm, and the change was instantaneous. His muscles slowly relaxed, and his breathing began to slow.

"What the hell happened?" she asked.

Dr. Schiaca turned around, still crouched on his knees. "Psychological shock. I've never seen it happen with nightmares before. Never."

"How the hell did that happen?" she asked. "He isnt supposed to dream on the Atavan."

"Well, it was probably wearing off, but not completely, so he started dreaming. You see, when the body experiences a nightmare, it usually wakes itself up. You know those times where you're falling from a building, and you wake up when you hit bottom?" he asked.

"Yeah," she replied, rubbing her arms for warmth.

"Well, he was probably having one of those moments, and the drug stopped him from waking. Psychological shock happens with prolonged experiences of terror," Dr. Schiaca said, rising to his feet and closing his bag.

"God almighty," she said under her breath, looking over the doctor's shoulder at Adrian. His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

"So what did you give him?" she asked.

"Pentothal. It's a much more powerful sedative than Lorazepam. It'll help return his nervous system to regulatory working order and let him rest," Schiaca said, studying Adrian.

They stood watching him for a long time, both lost in thought.

"What _happened_ to him?" she said eventually, more to herself than Dr. Schiaca.

"What indeed," he replied.


	13. Chapter 13

Ok, again, I apologize that this one is so short. I will try to make them longer. :-]

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* * *

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**Part 13**

Dr. Schiaca told her that the Pentothal would keep him asleep for at least twelve hours, so if she needed to get anything done, she needed to do it within that time. She had an idea of what she could do. She felt bad about wanting to check out the machine things, but she had to know. What was the worst that could happen, she would find that he had no ties to the attacks whatsoever? Even so, she still _had _to find out.

With her key, she had access to basically the entire Veidt building, even at six o'clock in the morning. She booted one of the computers on the pitch-black twelfth floor, it's blue glow helping with the darkness. Booting took nearly ten minutes, so she used that time to pull out all the records of purchases, flights plans, financials, pretty much everything. Which, as you can imagine, was each a huge notebook in itself. And that was just October. She had to rummage through several different people's desks to come across all of them, but she figured, hey, they wont mind. It's not like they were coming back… ever.

For more than an hour, she went through papers and databases to no avail. But then she found discrepencies in records. On all the written records of carrier trucks and aircraft owned by Pyramid, was Adrian's name. But in the computer databases, it was under someone named Lucas Blauvelt. She had heard that name before…

Lucas was the name of Adrian's father, and Blauvelt was his mother's maiden name. But they were dead. Why would he use someone else's name? Unless it was something he didn't want to be discovered under his name. So she searched for the names of the employed Pyramid truck drivers.

Andrew Lowe, truck driver; stationed in Los Angeles. Deceased in the attacks of Dr. Manhattan. Nathaniel Silver, truck driver; stationed in Paris. Deceased, unknown causes. Bob Hawkins, cargo jet pilot; stationed in Moscow. Found dead in apartment, cause unknown. David Briar, truck driver; stationed in New York. Deceased, mugged and killed on October 31st. Graig Daniels, truck driver; stationed in Beijing. Deceased in the attacks of Dr. Manhattan.

Grace's heart jumped into her throat. The entire list of them, one for each of the destroyed cities, continued like that. _Coincedence_, she told herself quickly. Millions of people died that day. Was it such a stretch that all of Veidt's drivers at the time were killed?

So she checked their cargo. Every single one of them carried the same thing. Each record read "transmitter," but didn't elaborate. So she accessed the servaillance systems from the dates that these "transmitters" were shipped out to their respective cities. They were large, television-sized machines that slightly resembled the big one that had been in New York prior to the explosions.

A transmitter for what? She knew Adrian and Dr. Manhattan had been working on that machine for new forms of energy, but were they really that close to finishing? Were they so close that they were shipping transmitters to all the major cities? But if they were that close, why had Adrian halted the project after Dr. Manhattan left Earth? If they _were _close, he could easily have finished it by himself. A cold chill ran down her back.

What about the big one? Where was it on the day of the attacks?

After searching through more flight records and employee payments, she found that it was at the Pyramid base in….

"_Antarctica,_" she breathed, her eyes growing wide. The only one not destroyed had been with Adrian.

He had flown to all the cities before the attacks… the records had said annual facility check; a cover. Oh God, what if he had flown to the cities to dispose of all the people who had transported the transmitters? What if they knew something, and that couldn't be allowed?

'They would have killed each other,' Adrian had said in his sleep.

The countries at war. They had nuclear weapons ready to fire. They would have killed each other.

'Have you ever done something you thought was right… you _knew _in your heart was right, but that others didn't agree with?' he had asked.

Killing millions… killing millions to save billions. 'Morally unacceptable' he had called it. Like her friend from college, Earth's nations were generally good, just needed help.

"Oh God," she breathed, staring blankly at the computer screen.

'An old friend,' had attacked him. One of the Watchmen. What if the other Watchmen had tried to stop him? Dr. Manhattan could transform his physical state into any size, which he did frequently, as the rumors said of his aid in Vietnam. What if he had destroyed the glass pyramid in Antarctica? What if he hadn't perpetrated the attacks? What if he had tried to _stop_ them?

"No," she gasped. "No, it's not possible."


	14. Chapter 14

**Part 14**

Grace didn't know what to do… how to react. This just couldn't be…

But then again, it was so obvious. She had been having dreams about it… her subconscious had figured it out before she was even consciously aware. She had seen all the signs, seen all the clues. The machine, the person standing before it in her dream, all of Adrian's panic attacks and nightmares. But she had refused to put them together. She refused to believe that one man could do this. It was somewhat acceptable when she believed that Dr. Manhattan had done it, but that was because he wasn't a man, was he? He was something more…

But Adrian? She could see the motives, all the ways he rationalized it. In his speech to New York the day after his return from Antarctica, he had rationalized Dr. Manhattan's actions. He was trying to get the people to see that what happened was a means of coercion to the peace. He wanted them to understand, not because he still felt kinship with Dr. Manhattan, but because _he himself_ had done it. He wanted them to understand _his_ motives, without having to blatantly tell them that it was him.

She had to be sure. This might be a massive overreaction; perhaps this was all just a string of unrelated events that she pulled her own meaning from. Perhaps there was no connection. But she had to be sure.

So she returned to his apartment and waited. She watched him sleep for the longest time, just trying to wrap her head around what she had discovered. Just yesterday she had cared for him so much, wanted desperately to help him. But after this? Even _if_ she didn't loose anyone close in the attacks, it was still unforgivable. You _cannot_ play God. But of course, Adrian doubted the existence of God, so it wasn't playing God, was it? It was using your intellect to find a solution to a problem.

But society is not an equation that can be solved. They were living, breathing _people,_ and they deserved the right to live. And no one, not even the world's smartest man, had the right to take that away from them. In a way, he was just like Dr. Manhattan.

Dr. Manhattan knew he was different from the human race… superior. He understood how everything worked except the nature of human beings. He knew it, but tried his hardest to not distance himself from them. And in that attempt, he had only alienated himself more. Adrian had done the same. He knew he was smarter than them, so he took the liberty of making decisions for them. But this just wasn't a decision she could accept.

So she waited. Four hours, six, eight. She waited. She would wait for him to wake up, and she would get the only answer she had left to be answered. _How could you?_

When he began to wake, she decided to get her facts in order; make sure she had a valid argument. The carriers, the deaths of the drivers of those carriers, the survival of the big machine (she didn't know what to call it) because it was with him. She went into the kitchen and got herself a glass of water; her throat would need to be extra lubricated for all the talking… yelling that she was planning on doing.

When she rounded the corner, he was standing, holding himself like a scared child, staring blankly out the glass doors. She stared, all her arguments gone. She was just so angry… yet so sad at the same time. It was obvious he felt bad about what he had done. But it was still wrong.

"Adrian," she said, and the conviction in her voice made him turn to look at her. When he saw her face, he smiled.

"Just a matter of time, I suppose," he said, and laughed at an irony that Grace wasn't aware of.

"Adrian," she said again. "I know. I know what you did."

He didn't seem in the least bit surprised. "I knew you would," he said, his eyes lowering as he looked down at the floor. "Although I must admit, I thought you would have figured it out sooner. It's ironic, really."

"What is?" she said angrily, making sure the fire she felt in her eyes was adequately scorching him.

"The only way you found out that I perpetrated the attacks was _because_ of the attacks. I made sure to keep all records separate, to avoid anyone making a connection. I made sure one person was in charge of flight plans and records, another for financials, and another for my personal schedule. But they were all killed in the attacks, so all the information got lumped together in your hands. I even put it under a different name in the databases in case that happened. But no… you saw right past it, didn't you?" he said smoothly, taking a step toward her.

She stepped back as if disgusted.

"I'm not a monster," he said, and his voice faltered. "You must understand, it was done with the best intentions."

"Yeah, and I bet Hitler's intentions were pure," she said sarcastically. "And if you knew I would figure it out, why didn't you just dispose of me like you did your drivers?"

"Ah, you figured that out too, did you? Good girl," he said, smiling a new smile. This new one was something frightening… way too confident. "Well, you see, I was still trying to recover from what I'd done. I physically couldn't take another life. The damage that does on your psyche…" he paused, thinking. "It's intolerable."

"Then why did you do it!" she yelled, her face flushing hot.

"It had to be done," he said, not raising his voice in the slightest. "Don't you see Grace? Had the nuclear warheads been fired, not only would the majority of the human race be wiped out, but fallout from the explosions would kill the survivors. It would have wiped out life as we know it on this planet. It _had _to be done, for the sake of all living things, not just humans."

"But you can't _do_ that! You played monopoly with these people's lives, and you didn't play fair. If we were meant to become extinct, so be it," she said, her voice still rising.

"But you can't prove the existence of a God in the first place. Who says we're _meant_ to do anything? What if our lives are random patterns, illogical sequences? What if we evolved to the intelligence we are today for no reason at all? What if it was just human evolutionary imperative? Then all of this war, all of our conflicts are left to us in the end, and us alone. _We_ solve our own problems, _we_ are in charge of our own destinies. Do you see? We are alone, in the end. Each person is alone to figure out their own path. I chose to save my race."

"Oh don't feed me your philanthropic bullshit!" she yelled again. "You yourself said that you believed in the existence of a higher being, something that is responsible for the unexplained! So what if there is a God? You think you can just take his job from him?"

"If he does exist, he creates us all in his own image. If that is true, then he bestowed me with my intelligence. To have the ingenuity to see the world's problems, and solve them in a way that he just would not. You think _God_ would have just reached out a hand and grabbed the warheads out of the sky? No. He gives us our lives, gives our situation, and bids us do what we will with it. Some chose wrong, so I used _my_ life, _my_ situation, and eradicated them," he said.

"There you go again, playing God!" she said, backing further away from him. "I won't be part of this anymore," she said, and whipped around to head to the elevator.

Before she knew what happened, she had been slammed against the hallway wall, hands held firmly above her head.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that," he said, and his voice was deep and terrifying.


	15. Chapter 15

**Part 15**

"What're you gunna do, Veidt?" she asked acidly, opting not to use his first name to convey her rage. "_Kill me?_"

"Don't!" he yelled right in her face, his eyes mere inches from hers. "Don't you say that! You think I have no moral boundaries?"

"Uh, let me think… yeah," she said sarcastically.

"I _can't_. I just can't take another life. Especially one I've come to value," he said, and she noticed his lower lip trembling.

He _would_ admit that he cared about her, now of all times.

"A little too late for that, don't you think?" she asked.

"Stop. Please, just stop acting like that," he begged, and she noticed that her hands were going numb from the grip he had on her wrists. "I know you hate me now for what I did. You may feel that way forever. But just _try_ to see it from my perspective. Consider what would have happened if I hadn't. Complete and desimating nuclear war."

"What _might_ have happened," she corrected. "You're not an oracle, remember? You don't know that they would have launched."

"You're being an optimist, Grace. Our military was at Defcon 1, and the Soviets had mobilized their warheads towards Saint Basil's Cathedral so they could access the motorways along the Moscow River and leave the city. They _would_ have fired. It is a complete certainty," Adrian said, staring her in the eyes, obviously hoping to bore his point of view into her. "You think I would have done it if there were any other way?"

She stared back, the silence between them dripping tension.

"What do you want me to say, Adrian?" she asked after long last, softening her tone slightly. "That I forgive you, condone what you did, and life goes on?"

"No," he replied, breaking her eye contact. "I need you to tell me that you will remain silent. You don't have to forgive me. But millions died for the peace we share. I need you to promise me that you will keep it that way."

"Oh, so now I get to keep your secrets too," she said, trying to shift under his grasp but not even managing to flinch. "Lucky me. I'm guessing the other Watchmen know?"

The pain in his eyes was evident. "Yes. They know. And they agreed that to maintain peace, they must stay silent."

She sighed, not knowing of anything else to say. She'd had her side of the argument, and he had countered it with an equally plausible counter-argument.

"Can you let me go now?" she asked. "I lost feeling in my hands a few minutes ago."

He sighed, and released her. She pulled her hands down and rubbed her wrists, where the white marks resembled handcuff scars.

"So what changed?" she asked, and he looked back up at her.

"About what?" he asked.

"I would have thought you'd panic when you found out I knew. What changed?" she asked.

He considered for a moment, his hands on his hips as he thought. "Well, I realized something."

She didn't ask, just raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"I realized that either way, if you don't agree to keep my secret or you do, that it's all going to be over soon," he said.

"So…" she began. "Even if I don't agree… you won't do anything about it?" And by that, she meant, "You won't kill me?"

He just stared at her for a moment, scoffed, and turned and walked into the kitchen. A bit shocked, she blinked her confusion away, and followed him.

He was standing at the wet bar, pulling out a glass of wine. He grabbed two glasses, and poured the vintage beverage into both of them. He looked at her, standing confused in the doorway, then turned and, with his back to her, garnished them. She almost laughed that he would take the care to do something like that in this situation.

He then walked over to her, handed her a glass, and stared in her eyes for a moment.

"You realize that this means that… I'll leave. That… _whatever_ happened here is over. I can't stay here, looking at you every day, knowing what you did," she said.

"Yes," he said, and there was something completely unreadable in his gaze. "I know."

She sighed, and raised the glass to her lips. Alcohol was always a great help in these types of situations.

He laid a hand on her arm, stopping her, and grabbed the front of her shirt, pulling her towards him. She had to hold the glass out to the side to avoid it getting crushed between them.

Before she registered what was happening, he was kissing her. There was a split second of surprise on her part, but then her head began to spin, and a flash of heat ran up her spine. Every time he moved his lips, it happened again, and she actually began to feel light-headed. She kissed him back, putting all her rage, sadness, and built-up passion into that one single kiss.

And as quickly as it had begun, it was over. He pulled back, looking away from her. She hadn't realized it, but apparently she hadn't breathed for the duration of the entire kiss. She stared strangely at him, tilting her head in confusion. He sighed, turned slightly away from her, and lifted his own glass.

"I know I've done it several times already, but I want to thank you again. For everything you've done for me," he said, and sipped his wine.

She didn't know how to respond. 'Alright. You kiss the snot out of me, and you say thanks?' didn't seem appropriate.

So she raised her glass and took a big gulp. She smiled as it went down. Only the best wines for Adrian Veidt. It was then that she noticed something strange. Her vision began to spin again, just like it had when he kissed her. Then it turned to tunnel vision, with odd black clouds appearing in the corners of her field of vision. Her breathing began to speed up, and she could feel her heart hammering against her chest so hard she thought it might jump through her ribcage any second.

She blinked several times to try to shake it, but nothing helped.

"Adrian," she said, and her voice sounded far away… like it was under water. "I feel…" she couldn't finish. Now her whole body was beginning to shake. She tried to focus on Adrian, no matter how much he was spinning.

He turned his head toward her slightly, and his eyebrows were slanted with grief. "I'm sorry," he said.

That's when she got a flash of her dream, and it was all so clear. She was walking down the streets of New York, and it was as breathtaking as ever. The buildings were gleaming so brightly; it was as if they were screaming for compliments. People scurried around her with their early morning mochas, hurrying to get to work but somehow managing to say "hello." The city was perfect, in every way.

But just as before, a huge machine was situated right in the center of Times Square. Standing in front of it, in all his faultless glory, was Adrian. He was facing the machine, but she knew it was him. He was wearing his old superhero suit, and he was standing so elegantly; shoulders back, chin high, everything about him giving off the aura of confidence.

She reached for him, and he nodded to her over his shoulder as he reached up and laid a hand on the giant machine. It began to hum and click, and Adrian slowly lowered his arm. As she finally grasped his shoulder, he turned his head to look at her.

He was perfect. He was his old self again; his skin bearing that youthful glow, his hair perfectly swept back over his headpiece. And his eyes… they were magnificent. Even the otherworldly blue glow of the machine didn't compare.

He smiled sadly, and reached up and took her hand in his. He squeezed it affectionately and said, "I'm sorry."

The blue glow expanded, and the darkness surrounding her vision swallowed her whole.

* * *

This is NOT the end. So stay tuned :-]


	16. Chapter 16: The Finale

**Part 16: The Finale**

For the longest time, Adrian Veidt stood in the middle of his kitchen, still holding his glass of wine, staring at the body on the floor. He watched the whole time, the entire process. She collapsed, dropping the glass, and shattering it on the tile floor, which sprayed red wine everywhere. Then she began to convulse as her major organs began to fail. Then she grew still, and slowly, it stopped.

He noticed with specific agonizing clarity when she took her final breath. He bit his cheek to stop himself from screaming. She had been so compassionate. She did so much for him. She had forsaken her own anguish after the attacks to care for him. And this was how he repaid her.

But it had to be done. He could see it in her eyes, her face; her lips when she spoke. She wasn't going to remain silent. She would tell, and the peace would be broken. Shattered that easily, in one moment, one sentence. "Adrian did it." That was all she had to say. The media would have hopped on it, and the world would have returned right into their pattern of hate, destroy, rebuild, hate. It was a vicious circle, and he'd be damned if he let it continue.

So he did what he knew was the only way. Why was he constantly forced to be the bad guy, make the hard decisions? Perhaps, if he existed, this was God's plan for him. He would make the difficult decisions, so society wouldn't have to. But it was just too hard to deal with. The pure hate he felt for himself was slowly killing him. He could feel it, like a demon eating it's way out from the inside. Gnawing and clawing, it would never stop until it rendered him unrecognizable. So he decided to make its job easier.

He sighed and set his glass on the center island of the kitchen. He stepped over to where Grace's body lay, twisted awkwardly from her fall. She appeared to be sleeping… so peacefully. He pushed back a strand of her beautiful auburn hair, and looked at her face. Twenty-seven was far too young to die. He had to bite his cheek again to avoid bursting into angry and sorrowful tears. He had to do it, to defend the prosperity of nations. It _had _to be done.

He slid his hands under her shoulders and knees, and lifted her easily. Her skin was still warm. She wasn't cold yet, and he half expected to be able to feel that vital pulse raging in her veins. But he knew it wouldn't come. He walked silently to his room, kicked open the balcony door, and carefully set her down on the floor against the railing. She didn't sit up straight like she always did. That perfect youthful posture. Gone.

_It had to be done._

He turned and strode back into his room, flipping on the stereo by his dresser, which began playing a piano ballad. He instantly recognized it as Ferrante and Teicher's "Exodus," and almost laughed at the irony. It was a daunting tune, one that could inspire fear and curiosity into the listener all at once. He smiled, and grabbed his best suit from his closet and changed. He walked into his bathroom, combed his hair to perfection, and straightened his black tie and purple jacket. He sighed, staring at the face that murdered millions… murdered the Comedian… murdered Grace.

He finally let go of his restraint, screamed with all his might, and slammed his fist into the mirror. It shattered instantly, the little reflections of parts of his face showering around his now bloody fist to rest on the vanity. He panted as he tried to regain his composure, then grabbed one of the larger shards of the mirror and strode out to the balcony.

He stood right next to her as he leaned against the railing and looked at the city. The sun was just about to hit the horizon, and he could see it perfectly. It was creating brilliant shades of colors on the massive amounts of shattered glass and metal below.

"You know," he said. "In Egypt, the citizens would bury their pharaohs in a valley together, to honor them. The Valley of the Kings, it was called. Their tombs were grand pyramids, and the pharaoh was laid to rest at the top, to ease his ascent to heaven. And he brought someone with him to the afterlife. Sometimes it was his wife, sometimes it was a treasured pet, sometimes…" he paused, looking down at Grace, and then collapsing next to her and leaning against the railing, "it was a servant."

Now there was only one thing left. He leaned closer to her, whispered "I'm sorry," again, and dug the jagged piece of the mirror into his left wrist. He clenched his jaw, and dragged it up toward his elbow a few inches. He wanted to cry out, to scream, but that wasn't something pharaohs did. They looked forward to the afterlife, strived for it with every fiber of their being.

He shakily switched the mirror piece to his now extremely bloody left hand, which was weak and already starting to loose motor function. He gritted his teeth and repeated the process with his right wrist, severing the Radial artery. He sat back, resting his arms on the ground as he bled out. It took a long time. It wasn't quick, like they make it out to be in movies. But then again, he didn't want it to be quick. Otherwise he would have used the Arsenic, just like he'd done with Grace.

No, he needed to suffer. He needed to feel the pain of death, to feel what those millions of people felt, what Eddy Blake felt. Not just lull off to sleep. He hoped Grace hadn't suffered too much. He hoped that it was quick and relatively painless, like ripping off a band-aid.

He leaned his head back against the railing and tried to stay awake as long as possible. He stared up at the clouds above, whose silver lining was shining brightly in the dusk light above the glowing "V" shape of the Veidt building.

He continued to stare as he whispered, "What a tragedy, the fate of his majesty."

It had to be done.

* * *

I just want to say one thing: I know some of you really wanted a happy ending, but this is what I saw happening. That's why it's labeled under Drama and Tragedy.


	17. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The static sound of the television filled the little sitting room, and the woman on the couch turned up the volume as a segment she wanted to hear was about to be broadcast.

"Hun!" she called. "Come here, I think you need to see this!"

She turned up the volume more as the man walked out of the basement door, wiping his hands on a towel and peering through his glasses at the television.

"Breaking news right now," the reporter was saying into his handheld microphone. He was quite obviously standing in front of the Veidt building as he spoke, and film crews were surrounding the area.

"We have just received word that Adrian Veidt, past member of the Watchmen and owner of Veidt Enterprises is dead of apparent suicide," the reporter continued, his own surprise showing obviously on his face.

Dan Dreiberg stopped wiping his hands and just stared.

"He was found late this afternoon in his apartment, alongside the body of a woman, apparently an employee of Veidt Enterprises. The woman was a…" the man looked down at a sheet of paper, "Grace Turner, one of Veidt's office secretaries. The cause of death is as of yet unknown, but sources suspect Arsenic poisoning to be the cause. It is unclear at this time if she opted to take it herself, or if it was, in fact, administered to her.

"As reported before, Adrian Veidt is dead from suicide. We received this footage earlier of the crime scene. I warn you, the image you are about to see may be disturbing."

The shot cut from the reporter to apparently someone walking a camera through a bedroom, the turning out onto a balcony.

Laurie Jupiter sat back in her spot on the couch and gasped, as did Dan.

Adrian was leaning against the railing, his arms resting on the ground by his sides, surrounded by a pool of blood. His head was slightly upturned, and his eyes were shut, as if sleeping. The woman was situated similarly against the railing next to him, her delicate face and long brunette hair set into a portrait of eternal sleep.

There were several other people on the balcony, one of them an older man who was crouched next to Adrian, feeling of his pulse.

"Mr. Campbell!" the person holding the camera said. "Mr. Campbell, what do you think about Mr. Veidt leaving all his money to charities and the construction costs of the major cities!"

"Get them outta here," the older man huffed, pushing the cameraman away and turning his back on him.

The scene then cut back to the reporter, who immediately shot into speech.

"Sources say that Mr. Veidt accurately severed the Radial artery in both wrists, which then caused him to bleed to death over a period of a few hours. As our cameraman said in that shot, Mr. Veidt opted to leave his entire inheritance and accumulated fortune to a few chosen charities and the construction costs of rebuilding the planet's major cities. As of now, it is unclear what the future holds for Veidt Enterprises."

The scene changed to the desk anchor.

"Striking news," he said, and Laurie turned the volume back down. She nor Dan heard the anchor begin to say "and in other news, the New Frontiersman have come forward with what they claim to be the journal of ex-vigilante and convict Walter Kovacs a.k.a. Rorschach. Only the future will tell if this journal is the real deal."

Laurie turned to Dan, her face flushed. Dan's face had sunk and he looked pale.

"Karma's a bitch, huh Dan?" Laurie said, and Dan tried to smile but failed. No matter how angry he was with what Adrian had done, he couldn't help but remember that he had been a close friend for almost twenty years.

"He just…" Dan began, and looked down at the floor. "He just wanted what was right. He just went about it all wrong. That's the second friend I've lost in a month."

"Oh, Dan," Laurie said, and turned on the couch to embrace him. She held him close, trying to squeeze the grief out of him. "It'll be okay," she said, pulling back and looking him in the eyes.

"Oh, I know it will. I got my happy ending. I just wish I could say that for so many others. Including Adrian," Dan said, removing his glasses and cleaning them with his towel.

Laurie hugged him again, and as he looked over her shoulder at the television, they played a montage of pictures of Adrian's life, ending in the picture of the Watchmen; Eddy Blake, Laurie Jupiter, Jon Osterman, Dan Dreiberg, and Rorschach. It seemed like just yesterday that picture was taken.

"Goodbye, my friend," he said, and returned his glasses to his face.

* * *

So, a HUGE, RIBCRACKING BEAR HUG to all who took this journey with me, I'm glad I could entertain you with my shenanigans. Thank you soooooo so much for reading :-]

Like a lot of people, music is my muse. And I've found that I can't write without it. Here are the songs that inspired this story, if you wanna check 'em out :-]

Behind Blue Eyes- Limp Bizkit, I'm Lost Without You- Blink 182, Broken- Lifehouse, Chemistry of a Car Crash- Shiny Toy Guns, Fin- Anberlin, Over and Out (The Renholder Remix)- Alkaline Trio, Fix You- Coldplay, So I Thought- Flyleaf, Apologize- OneRepublic, Boulders- New Found Glory, You're Not Alone- Saosin, and of course Exodus by Ferrante and Teicher.


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